


Of Bad Habits And Good Intentions

by Blackleg5932 (Fridoline), pxratehunter (lostsparrow)



Series: Zosan Anthology [1]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Domestic Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, OOC moments possibly, POV Roronoa Zoro, POV Vinsmoke Sanji, Roleplay Logs, Roommates, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 19:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11111178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fridoline/pseuds/Blackleg5932, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostsparrow/pseuds/pxratehunter
Summary: Secretly worried about the other's health, Zoro and Sanji get rid of the other's bad habit: alcohol and cigarettes. Despite the chaos that ensues, their friendship gets even stronger.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an archive of our Zosan RP plots  
> Both authors are of age and non-native English speakers
> 
> Due to the nature of RPs there will be a constant switch of POVs and some scenes will only fully make sense after both sides and reactions have been shown
> 
> In this college AU Zoro is studying Outdoor Education  
> Sanji is graduating in Culinary Studies
> 
> They are living together in a rather nice apartment financed through Sanji's scholarship money and Zoro's earnings from shady night activities

It was a quarter past four in the afternoon and Zoro’s mind was still dormant; a strong and invisible force weighing upon his eyelids. Time and mood seemed to be a perfect match again and again, as no single day went by without it being like this, even in the weekends when he had no classes to attend.

It was not that he was lazy, slow or detached of the world around him or of the academic life he currently lead. Zoro’s organism just had its own schedules which it would not accommodate to things the likes of the printed timetable he’d been assigned with and given to on his first day on campus. What was something as random and shallow as a system-generated timetable to a strong mind?

Still, things worked fine the way they were, despite his inability to stay awake during class. None of the professors could write down as absent a student who was so physically and vividly present in their class, for Zoro’s impressive figure did a good job in filling his seat; and his snoring took pride in filling the atmosphere of the room as well. 

They couldn’t expel him for that, not when falling asleep mid-class was an everyday activity of the average student; but they could kick his sleepy behind outside when his snoring became a matter of pollution. Outdoors was the place a student majoring Outdoor Education should be anyways.

Now that classes had ended, the day could finally have a decent start. The system dictated by Zoro’s organism would only work because he would make an effort in compensating his classroom inactivity with good studying sessions in the nighttime, when his brain seemed to work to its full potential, for in the quiet of the night inner calmness could be achieved and mind could be set loose. 

Normally, Zoro would scribble the main topics of the day’s lectures after making some inquiring, and he would do research on his own without needing annotations. With that issue being secured, Zoro could worry about more pertinent matters, such as booze. 

Unlike what happened to most people, and while pretty much everyone of the present student population would turn to caffeine as a stimulus to keep them awake; it was alcohol that fueled his mind without causing sleepiness. In fact, it had nothing to do with it. It was a good pick-me-up, actually. 

Zoro opened the door to his double room, which was obviously empty as he had to give the key three twists to unlock it. Sanji wasn’t there. Good.  
Kneeling in front of a cabinet, he opened the door to reveal a small fridge inside and there his beloved amber and green-coloured bottles lay as they awaited his return like his most loyal friends. 

Like a treasure chest this cabinet was, like a battered old chest with precious treasure inside, some of it even like liquid gold. 

Of course students were not supposed to keep alcoholic beverages in their rooms, or cigarettes or anything that could be lit and smoked for that matter, but the staff in charge of the dorm were what the students called “good people” and averted their eyes. 

Maybe they enjoyed the prospect of a major fire burning the damn place to smithereens. 

Now sitting on his bed, his duffel bag cast under it, Zoro drank a whole bottle in a continuous take, only stopping when it was empty. It turned out his palate still craved for more and so did his powerful, don’t-take-orders-from-damn-timetables brain. He fetched another bottle and lazily stretched his limbs before placing both bottles on top of his desk, where two other bottles were already sitting. It was a really sad collection to contemplate.

At this rhythm, he’d run out of booze pretty soon - which also explained why a big slice of his college budget was spent in liquid things packaged in bottles and cans, even topping his book expenses. In cold fear of a scenario free of alcohol and thus free of peace of mind, Zoro pocketed his wallet and his key after giving three other twists on the keyhole so as to lock the room and went out in the pursuit of bottled happiness.

  
  


  
It took a bit of shoving to fit his thick folder into his bag after the last lecture of the day. Sanji would definitely have to start a new one again soon. People often did not believe him that there was that much theory in culinary studies but there was and Sanji preferred to take notes meticulously. In addition to that, the professors also really liked to hand out heaps of copied texts and so a folder easily filled at a fast rate, straining the seams of his sling bag that definitely had seen better days.

Compared to his fellow students, Sanji definitely had a huge advantage over them, as he practically grew up in the kitchen of a high class restaurant. Still, it was not as if his course of study was not demanding for him. After all, being taught to cook by one grumpy old man, albeit a professional, did not compare to being taught all the additional, complex facets of this art and craft by a multitude of professionals from all areas of the gastronomy.

Sanji was focussed on absorbing all the knowledge he could from every single one of his lecturers. Although at the end of the day his intense concentration would almost always leave him with an annoying headache, like it did just then. Only two things could help him get rid of it:

Cooking and smoking.  
  
In order to cook a decent meal that evening, he’d definitely have to do some grocery shopping as he was running out of fresh ingredients and his roommate could absolutely not be trusted to differentiate a cucumber from a zucchini – and even if he could, if Sanji was honest, he wouldn’t let anyone else choose the ingredients he was about to use in his cooking. He could be somewhat particular on that matter but Zoro only benefited from it; no shopping duty and a delicious, nutritious meal. Nothing to complain about, in theory, but Zoro always found a way to push his buttons, that was just how their friendship worked.

Sanji stopped by the mart close to their dorm to get what he needed for the next few days, enjoying a couple of smokes on his way there. Inhaling the toxic fume never failed to bring a certain calm to his nerves and ease the painful throbbing in his head. After a long day, Sanji could easily go through more than half a pack in the evening alone, way more if he did not have many opportunities to smoke the rest of the day.

With the filled shopping cart on his way to the cashier, Sanji shortly considered buying a new pack of cigarettes for his way back as he only had two smokes left in his package but he did not want to risk going over his carefully calculated shopping budget. And he had also quite a stack of cigarette supply packed in one of the kitchen cupboards. Surely he would last for his way back with the two remaining smokes.

The cashier seemed to have had an especially stressful day, so Sanji gave his best to be an apparently rare pleasant customer with being extra polite to her. When it earned him a tired smile and a grateful nod, Sanji could feel his headache wane even more. A lovely lady’s smile was the most powerful medicine after all.

As it turned out, with both hands full of shopping bags, smoking more than one cigarette on his way home proved to be quite challenging, or rather the smoking itself wasn’t the problem – Sanji didn’t really need his hands to keep the cigarette between his lips – but shaking off the ash was annoying.

With a practiced flip of his tongue against the butt of the smoke he made the ash fall but also unfortunately got it all over his jacket.

When Sanji arrived in front of their door he put the bags down on the floor to pat the ash from his front and fish for the keys in his pocket. Unlocking the door he gently kicked it open, heaved the bags inside, slipped out of his shoes and let his heavy slingbag slide from his shoulder. He let it sit under the coat rack where he put his jacket and brought the groceries into the kitchen to quickly sort them away.

The empty bottles littering their small, shared living area did not escape his notice and Sanji felt his annoyance grow. Zoro’s alcohol consume was nothing new but he had the feeling over time it had gotten a bit out of hand. Not that the idiot’s academic achievements would suffer from it, on the contrary, but surely his liver would have a few complaints to make if it could talk.

With a defeated sigh Sanji scanned their apartment and picked up all the empty bottles he could find. The shitty jerk couldn’t even clean up after himself.

Pretty pissed off now, he decided to get to cooking dinner to calm down but before he could reach the stove his feet had already brought him right in front of the little cabinet that contained his roommate’s minibar. He crouched down to throw a look inside and was somehow shocked to find it almost empty, even though all the empty bottles he had just picked up should have been quite the indicator. It wasn’t that long since Zoro had last re-stocked the little fridge.

Without thinking Sanji grabbed the remaining alcohol and stood up, kicking the cabinet close.  
Craddling the bottles in his arm he was momentarily lost what to do now. A quick glance around told him that there were not many places where he could successfully hide them away. But even in a shared place like this there are some private areas that are mutually respected and so the bottles ended up in Sanji’s otherwise pretty empty nightstand. Who would have thought that he would find such a use for it one day?

At least it was one of the few places where Zoro would not dare to breach his privacy and even better, Sanji could just lock it and keep the key on himself, in case he was underestimating Zoro’s determination. Quite proud of his impromptu solution and not in the least guilty about this alcohol theft, Sanji returned to the kitchen to prepare dinner as planned.  
  
  
  


There was an enormous buzzing sound filling Zoro’s head as if it were a beehive, but it started to subside as the alcohol started to act in his blood vessels, sending shooting shots up to his brain. His thoughts became clearer and clearer each time his booted foot hit against the pavement as Zoro made his way to the closest mart.

Zoro would have preferred to take a trip to a shop of the specialty, where there were shelves and shelves and shelves loaded with all kinds of drinks from all sorts of places and covering a wide price range. Paying a visit to the liquor store was his very own version of entering a toy store when you’re a kid. 

Unfortunately, this kid was on a budget and - though he would never admit it out loud or even silently on paper or via text on a mobile screen - seemed to have a talent for losing his way even when walking short distances.

His wallet being more occupied with cards and air than with actual money, there was no other choice for Zoro but to get to the closest mart,   missing Sanji quite by accident; and pay for a cheap six-pack without any award medals printed on the packaging. 

Cheap beer would do its job just fine and while Zoro admitted it just didn’t taste the same as the fancier stuff, it was still good. Plus, a rough and primitive beverage would make the perfect contrast with Sanji’s cooking, which Zoro found to be too refined at times. 

It was like the bastard was making it on purpose when he presented a world-class feast against his half-assed microwaved cup noodles. But of course this, for one, was something Zoro could not blame Sanji for - cooking was, after all, his true call and his true passion. It had nothing to do with competition or throwing shade.

Sanji was a good fella in cooking for the both of them. Zoro wondered if Sanji’s trouble with his nutrition didn’t have anything to do with the chef-in-the-making not wanting to come home one day and find his mate’s corpse on the floor, after succumbing to malnutrition. Think of the trouble he’d give the shitty cook by making him lose his classes to take care of his funerary arrangements. That brought a smile to Zoro’s lips.

Zoro felt something strange when he returned home, some chill down his spine. Then, he found the reason for it, or so he thought.

“Hey”, he said to Sanji, as he had to go through the kitchen area and therefore could not have possibly missed his friend.

Sanji’s mood was difficult to figure out. On one hand, he had his hands on pots and knives, which was something that always made him happy. He didn’t even have to do the actual cooking to let his love show, for anyone could see how much he loved to cook when he did things like organizing his spice rack. On the other hand, he wasn’t looking too happy.

It was like something bad had happened to him… Zoro did not ask. He need not ask. Instead, he placed the six-pack on the counter and took a look around.

Immediately he felt that same shiver play with his nervous system for the second time. Something was a-missing in that flat, but what could it be? 

Zoro cocked his eyebrow as he made an effort and put his refreshed brain cells to use. When it dawned on him, he decided deciphering Sanji would have to wait, for now it was his own mood that mattered.

“My bottles, they’re missing!” With a feline-like jump over the counter, Zoro got behind the busy cook. As much as he wanted to smack him right there, Zoro understood the dangers of playing with fire and didn’t want to hit Sanji when he was so vulnerably messing with his kitchen pyrotechnics. 

“The empty ones and the full ones both! What have you done to them?”  
  
  
  
Zoro returned in the middle of Sanji’s cooking and waltzed right through the kitchen. Sanji acknowledged his greeting with only a quick and rather cold gaze and kept concentrating on cutting the parsley while keeping an eye on the simmering sauce.

He could practically feel the drunken bastard tense up and simultaneously his own senses sharpened in answer, so it was no surprise at all when the penny finally dropped and Zoro leapt over the counter to demand answers. What was always a surprise though was how Zoro stayed so annoyingly perceptive when there was more alcohol than blood running through his veins.

Sanji tried to stay as calm as possible and just continued working on the meal.  He had noticed the six-pack of piss water on the counter. It figured that as soon as he had gotten rid of the alcohol, Zoro just returned with some more swill. He threw a disdainful look over his shoulder, first at the beer, then at Zoro, before turning his back to his roommate again – just to drive the point home.

With a lazy wave of his left hand he vaguely gestured towards the front door.

“Listen, shithead, your empty bottles are in the basket where they belong as the glass waste they are! I’m sure even you know that there is no bottle deposit on them. A ‘thanks for cleaning up behind my lazy ass’ would’ve been enough, by the way.”  
  
Angrily stirring the sauce that really did not need more stirring, Sanji briefly considered not answering the second part of Zoro’s pressing question but he knew his friend wouldn’t just let that part slide. With a soundless sigh he turned around to finally face Zoro, arms crossed over his chest, obscurring the “Kiss the Cook” lettering across his apron, Sanji did not notice that his own body language had switched to defensive now.

“The other bottles are….temporarily stored elsewhere. I’m sure you can survive a couple of days without drowning yourself in hard liquor.” Sanji finally answered with a bite to his words he couldn’t suppress. Zoro’s alcoholism was pissing him off more than it should.

  
  
  


Sanji confessed his crime without skipping a beat. Of course he did, when he was the only suspect and thus the only culprit of such an infamous act. Nobody else had the keys to the apartment if you excluded the skeleton keys in possession of the staff. 

At least Sanji was not full of bull when it came to matters of justice, regardless of how minimal they were. And, to Zoro, touching his booze was nothing short of a major violation of property, as much as it was an attack to his own integrity. 

“I never told you to clean up after my ass, have I?” The insult of ‘shithead’ hadn’t gone unnoticed, even when it was so constant in his life it was like oxygen itself; and Zoro didn’t hesitate on kicking it up a notch, which he always did cleverly when bickering with the cook was involved. “You **dickhead** didn’t even have to clean anything because those bottles were not waste. I was keeping them with a purpose!”

Zoro’s voice faltered with this last claim. Truth was he had no purpose for the bottles other than having them sit on his desk, collecting dust. He couldn’t even say there was a vagabond-ish aesthetic concept behind it; he just did not worry about such things as alcoholic clutter.

His body became so tense it might as well be made of iron. Sanji’s monotonous, condescending tone was enough to tease his nerves; and with him having his back turned on him, to hear that tone without seeing the lips moving as he uttered his response felt like his nerves were being teased with a hammer. 

Worse was yet to come, though, for Sanji would either tell him the whereabouts of his unopened bottles willingly or by persuasion.

“THAT’S NOT FOR YOU TO DECIDE!“ 

Sanji’s body language was capable of saying many things at once - that he was tired, that he was stressed, that he was ready for a fight and that he had better things to do. And Zoro didn’t see a single one of those things because having his friend admit he’d stolen his booze, _his beloved booze_ , was so infuriating it was blinding!

Sanji’s lips were embracing a cigarette, just as they always did. In fact, Zoro would often wonder just _how_ did the cook conceal so many multiple packs of smokes in his person. The shitty hypocrite!

Rather than saying anything about it, Zoro closed his eyes, took a not-so-deep breath and started rummaging the cupboards.  
  
  


  
  


Sanji only raised his right brow in disbelief - unfortunately it could not be seen behind his fringe covering that particular side of his face - at Zoro’s weak-ass bullshit claim of a supposed purpose for the empty bottles that had literally littered their apartment not even an hour ago as the obvious waste they were.

Predictably, Zoro did not take well to the revelation of what had happened to his beloved alcohol. If he were honest, Sanji could concede a point to Zoro that _theoretically_ his drinking problems were his own, but in the actual situation at hand there were quite a couple of reasons why he could have and should have acted like he did, the most basic one being: he had to fucking live with the guy.

Sanji didn’t waste any more thought on the other possible reasons behind his impulse acting. In fact, thinking proved to become more difficult with half his brain still occupied with dinner and the other half actively bringing his headache back to full force. Zoro suddenly rummaging through his cupboards like a wild beast also definitely did not help ease the throbbing pain in his temples.

Switching off the heat on the stove to save power and let the residual energy do the rest of the work, Sanji wished he could save his own energy as easily as that. Alas, a cook could at least dream…

As his friend continued to ravage his kitchen, Sanji continued to lose the rest of his already very thin patience.

“What the hell are you doing? Have you gone completely batshit now?” Instead of an answer he just received an annoyed sounding grunt from behind yet another opened cupboard door. Not that they had a big kitchen with that many cupboards, the moss for brains just kept opening the same cabinets while missing a few others in his blind rage.

“I’m talking to you, asshead, if you have to let off some steam, do it anywhere else but my kitchen!”

Sanji put out his spent smoke in the ashtray on the counter. It was the last from his old pack, the new one had already replaced the empty pack in his breast pocket when he started dinner. Zoro’s roaming eyes were obviously searching for something, logic dictaded that it could only be his fucking booze. Offended that the dumbass thought Sanji would really be as daft as to hide his bottles in a place as obvious as the kitchen cupboards, the cook decided to draw a line here.

“Marimo. Get out of my kitchen. Now!”

  
  
  


Zoro offered Sanji no answer, busy as he was searching for his bottles. 

A kitchen was a cook’s domain, that alone Zoro could understand, even if he couldn’t _feel_ what it actually meant to a cook. Were he a different person, or if they were in a different situation, he would have understood the sanctity of Sanji’s space and respected it.

Be that as it may, things would shape themselves as a different scenario when his property was involved - hadn’t Sanji cast the first stone? Hadn’t that insufferable golden shit committed sacrilege in the first place? 

In a moment’s enlightment, Zoro understood his liquor had to be locked away somewhere, possibly elsewhere. Sanji had his own cabinets the same way he did, and though they didn’t really have the need to lock their belongings for safekeeping, they had a bunch of tiny keys each.

Zoro turned around, moping, but before he could insult his friend some more for his sinful actions and reproachable behaviour, he couldn’t help but focus on his ridiculous apron, now left exposed as Sanji tried to collect himself before going berserk in defence of his sancturary.

‘ **Kiss the Cook’.** Now that was some pitiful shit. 

What exactly moved a man and made him purchase an apron - or any piece of clothing at all - with so _pathetic_ a message? It was a functional item, not a statement on one’s intimate affairs. The bastard had to be rather desperate. 

For some unknown reason, that particular apron was the thing Zoro hated the most out of everything Sanji owned, and even more so when he donned it without the faintest drop of decorum.

But something else caught Zoro’s attention now, something criminal, something _delicious_ which brought a demon smile to his lips. "You hypocritical fuck” he snickered. 

With a nicely measured booted step, the alcochol addict stepped closer to Sanji, his figure obscuring the 'Kiss the Cook’ remark. He slowly rubbed his index finger against the collar of Sanji’s shirt and as he did so the flash of something demonic played upon his face. With an expression of victory all about him, Zoro showed Sanji proof to his hypocrisy.

Ash. There was _ash_ on his finger. 

“Don’t lecture me on housekeeping when you don’t even take care of your shitface self. Why should I leave the kitchen? It’s my kitchen too!”

  
  
  


When Zoro suddenly stopped rifling through the cabinets and turned around to face him, he looked for a moment as if he was pouting. Then he glared at Sanji’s apron with unconcealed disdain before his eyes moved a little higher and an unnerving, almost demonic grin spread across his face. That sequence of actions was a little too fast and confusing for Sanji’s brain to keep up with, so when Zoro entered his personal space and dragged a finger across his collar in a weirdly gentle motion, it shut off completely for a second or two.

Sanji blinked twice, slowly, not really getting what was going on and stared dumbly at the finger Zoro was now holding up, a trace of cigarette ash was smeared across the tip. Sanji’s brain finally rebooted and he connected the 'hypocrite’ comment with his smoking habit at last. Still, this was this and that was that, he thought, and didn’t see what any of this had to do with Zoro’s excessive drinking. He slapped away Zoro’s hand with annoyance.

The cook’s frown grew deeper but Zoro’s smug expression stayed and it sent a shiver of cold dread down his spine. The fact that his friend looked like he had won the upper hand now and had this self-satisfied grin plastered on his face made Sanji weirdly uncomfortable. Did the bastard actually just chuckle?

"Like fuck is this your kitchen, not while I am cooking here!” He tried to get back on the issue. Jaw clenched tight, his lips were pressed into a thin line, he definitely needed a couple more smokes soon and also some work-out on top of it, if he wouldn’t get a fight out of Zoro, which more and more looked like it wasn’t happening.

Somehow that made it even more stressfull for Sanji. He knew how a fight with Zoro would go, it was routine. They’d get each other heated up in a stupid argument, fight and then cool down again. Simple as that. But with all the build-up and no prospect of some physical venting, Sanji felt like bursting and needed to look for another outlet.

Grating his teeth, the cook warned him one last time.  
“I won’t say it again, Marimo, get the fuck out of the kitchen or you’ll get my foot up your ass!”

Shockingly, Zoro didn’t take the obvious bait for a fight and even complied, after a weird moment of assessing him, and left the kitchen area with a goddamn snicker and a shrug of his shoulders in a lazy whatever-attitude. Sanji was dumbfounded, did he fucking miss something?! Where the hell did the high tension from just mere moments ago disappear to? How the hell was Zoro able to go from demonical rage to fucking Zen in 0.1 seconds?!

Compared to Zoro’s magical mood-shift, Sanji still felt absolutely high-strung. Frustrated he turned back to the stove and finished cooking dinner, which was then served - hot and perfect – only a couple minutes later.

The roommates ate in silence. Sanji kept casting suspicious glances over at Zoro but the Marimo just kept his eyes on his plate and ate like he always did.

Dinner cost Sanji another 3 cigarettes.

After the meal Zoro quietly disappeared into his room. Sanji cleared up the table and cleaned the dishes, putting them away neatly. The tension in his body had made his muscles ache by now, he decided to go for an evening jog to loosen up and get the pent-up energy out of his body.

In his bedroom he quickly changed into his favourite tracksuit, put on some deo, grabbed his iPhone from the charger and earphones for some music, pocketed his smokes and keys, and soon left the stifling and suffocating atmosphere of their apartment.

Outside, Sanji quickly chose some music on his smartphone, put the earphones into his hears and started on his run. This evening he decided to take the long route around campus.

  
  
  


Sanji was static at first, as though he did not comprehend what he was being charged with; or as if he did but was having trouble coming up with a suitable reaction. When a short-lived spark lit his eyes showing he had made the maths and Sanji’s face grew even longer, Zoro’s confidence in his dirty findings received a boost; which he transfigured into a wide grin. He was proud of himself and he would have Sanji know it. 

“I pay half the rent money, therefore half of the kitchen is mine.” His reply was cool, which made Sanji heat up. Zoro could sense that his cook friend would not spend another two minutes without searching his person for a fresh cigarette. When his words became a not-so-friendly warning, Zoro forced himself to deny his instincts’ first suggestion, for every fibre of his being was telling him to get physical. 

Getting Sanji with his bare hands or by the tip of the katana was more of a pastime than it was a form of violence. Whatever it was, it was _delightful_. 

Zoro simply took his time confronting the cook, knowing full well silence could be just as unnerving an answer as a witty remark, and left the kitchen with a shrug. 

Of course, all the tension that had bottled up inside him hadn’t just evaporated - it was there, reverberating in his blood, with his heart’s every beat. But Zoro’s body was not weaker than his will was, and so he collected himself and entered his room, not without grabbing the six-pack first in a last act of defiance. 

No matter how much and how hard they fought, Sanji would never let his friend’s stomach be empty. Of course sometimes he would shout at Zoro to make his own dinner, but for some reason seemed to take pity on his friend - the question was, did he took pity on Zoro having nothing better to eat than some microwaved noodles or did he took pity on the noodles being eaten in such a disrespectful way? 

When Sanji went out with his mobile in his hand and still mute earphones coiled in his fingers, Zoro knew he was going out for a jog. Perfect timing. Zoro’s plan had formed the moment he had come face-to-face with the reality that his booze would not be so easy to find. If that was the game the cook wanted to play; it was game on. 

Once he was gone, Zoro tried to give it five minutes before execution commenced, lest Sanji come back to the apartment; but what had once been anger had now turned into excitement. Zoro searched the house for all cigarette packets, boxes, and other containers he could find and placed them inside a black waste bag. It was only fair for Sanji to be deprived of his passions after what he had done, what with invading his friend’s property and sticking his nose into his own business. 

 When it was time to throw Sanji’s cupboard stash inside the bag as well, Zoro gave it a moment’s thought: should he leave it there so as to keep Sanji occupied and stall that harsh moment of realization? _Nah._ Thinking of how good it would be to see Sanji feel so bad was too sweet to resist. Zoro shoved Sanji’s entire collection of smokes inside the bag and took it out, not to the nearest bin.

 


	2. Chapter 2

When Sanji finally returned home it had been dark outside for quite a while already. It took him two regular laps around campus before he finally calmed down and got the stress of the day out of his system.  During his cool-down on his walk back home, Sanji felt how exhaustion was slowly washing over him and he decided to call it a day after a nice shower, it was getting late after all.

Entering their apartment, he quickly kicked off his running shoes, placing them neatly at the wall, before going straight to his room. His phone’s battery was down to 29% again so he placed it right back into the charging station, setting his alarm for the next day before he’d forget it later, even though most of the time he woke up way before his alarm had a chance to go off.

Sanji started to strip out of his sweaty tracksuit, it would go right into the laundy basket. He put his already more than half-empty cigarette package on his bed table along with his keys to empty the pockets of the jogging pants – accutely aware of the stolen alcohol hidden away in the little nightstand.

Sanji really hadn’t thought this through, the problem with impulse actions. He wasn’t sure how long he should keep the bottles locked away or if it would have any real effect on Zoro other than pissing the other man off. Well, he would have to see, for the time being Sanji really didn’t want to keep thinking about it.

With some fresh underwear and his pajamas Sanji made his way to the bathroom, not bothering to inform his roommate that it would be occupied now. If the bastard happened to have to piss that badly from the shitty beer he probably drank before, he could just do it outside or whatever.

Something felt eerily off in the quiet apartment and a cold shiver ran down Sanji’s spine, leaving a trace of goosebumps behind on his skin. He quickly slipped into the bathroom to get under a hot stream of water as soon as possible. Inside he first made use of the toilet to relieve himself, after he had thrown the tracksuit into the laundry basket and placed his change of clothes on top of it.

Then he finally stepped inside the shower and let the hot water relax his muscles for a couple of minutes, before lathering up for his regular washing procedure.

  
  
  


Once the mission of getting rid of Sanji’s own treasure was completed, Zoro remembered he had a bigger task awaiting him: he still had to go through the day’s lessons so as to compensate his classroom napping. He had put all his energy and mind into dealing with Sanji he had just forgotten the responsibilities he had with himself!

Fortunately, he thought, his course relied more on practical lessons than it did in theoretical means of evaluation, as its name announced so bluntly. As far as he showed up for the field courses and tests proper, he would be fine. 

Zoro’s study space was very minimalistic, the kind that would go well on a catalogue. That had more to do with his course’s meager requirements for a small space and a few books rather than with a manic want for things to be spotless, though he did appreciate cleanliness and organization in some things. Being a bit more old-fashioned, Zoro preferred to take notes on a notebook and use his smartphone for all his digital research needs. Therefore, he had no laptop to sit atop his desk.

Popping his first beer out of a family of six, he sat at the desk and read the topics he had scribbled on his notebook that afternoon. The beer he left next to his coursebook like it was every other student’s energy-bestowing mug of coffee. With some music playing at a low volume to create a productive atmosphere, Zoro proceeded to do his bit of study.

So focussed in his task was he now that he did not notice Sanji returning home when he did; only doing so when his friend locked himself in the bathroom and let the water run. So… the human chimney was back from his jogging exercise. 

Quite stupidly, Zoro reclined on his chair, his fingers playing with the pen, and wondered if Sanji, who could spent a lot of time in the shower judging by his mental calculations, did any smoking _while_ showering. 

Of course the smell of his bad habit was such a constant in their routine it filled the entire house. That made it hard to say when and where Sanji had lit a smoke, for it was something that seemed to happen everywhere, everytime.

When he realized he was wasting study time thinking of Sanji - and of his hygienic whims to boot - Zoro let out a noise of disgust and repent. His cheeks were flustered, too, but that might have something to do with the post-kitchen tension drinking marathon.

He smashed the first can with a strong fist, left its metallic corpse upon the desk, and proceeded to chug down a second one with more fury than he ought to. 

Zoro wiped his mouth to the back of his hand and returned to his lesson on botanics.

  
  
  


Sanji stepped out of the shower right onto the bathmat, soaking it, and made a grab for both of his towels. The big one he used to quickly wipe off the big rivulets of water running down his body, then he tied it around his hip and used the small towel to dry off his hair as best as he could. When his hair was not dripping wet anymore Sanji went back to meticulously dry off every drop of water on his skin, he hated the feeling of clothes clinging to wet skin, it tended to stick and pull in all the wrong places, super annoying!

With his skin satisfyingly dry, he hung up his wet towels, spread out a bit so that they wouldn’t get that musty smell. His boxer briefs and pajama pants were quickly slipped into next, his pajama shirt though took a bit longer to get buttoned up but for Sanji’s practiced hands that was no issue at all.

Wiping away the condensation on its glass, Sanji checked himself out in the mirror. His skin was still flushed from the hot water, his hair was a mess from being ruffled dry with the towel and stuck in every direction.

Sanji continued his bath routine with putting on a generous amount of deodorant, going through three different types of facial care products and combing the strands of his hair into the right position.

The majority of the sanitary articles in their bath were the cook’s as he tended to be a bit particular about his hygiene and skincare and used various products to accommodate his needs. The Marimo, on the other hand, was a simpler man. Where Sanji had various shower gels for his body, shampoo and conditioner for his hair, Zoro would mostly use those types of shower gels you could also wash your hair with. The other man also never understood why Sanji needed three types of toothpaste, he once argued that his teeth wouldn’t know if it’s morning, noon or evening.

Sanji frowned at his reflection in the mirror, his hair was still a bit wavy, it always did that when wet. Luffy once commented with a big smile that he somehow reminded him of his brother, Sabo, when his hair was wavy like that. He knew it would straighten out on its own as soon as it was drying completely, but he still wasn’t sure if the waves suited him as they did both Sabo and Ace.

Shrugging his shoulders and sticking out his tongue at his reflection in a silly moment, he let the weird and slightly narcissistic question, if he was handsome with wet hair, drop and reached for his toothbrush to start his dental hygiene.

With toothbrush in hand, he hesitated for a moment, thinking of something. Coming to a conclusion Sanji placed the toothbrush back into the mug. He would hold off with his dental hygiene for a couple more minutes as he wanted to have at least one more smoke before going to bed and Sanji didn’t smoke after he had already brushed his teeth, in the evening, that is. If that was a general rule for all his toothbrushing times he wouldn’t be a smoker anymore. But at least at night he preferred to sleep with a fresh breath.

Sanji’s mind was now focussed on getting a cigarette in his mouth again, the nicotine addiction was calling strongly to him today. So, finished for the time being in the bathroom, he unlocked the door and stepped into the living room, where he remembered a cigarette pack of his should be lying on the coffee table. When he checked there, though, there was none. Weird, he was sure he had left one there last time he watched TV, maybe he just didn’t remember finishing it when he was in thought, that happened sometimes.

On his way to his bedroom, Sanji noticed another place where he thought a package would be lying around when it wasn’t and slowly confusion made way for the feeling of dread filling him up.

Thankfully the cigarettes on his nightstand were right there where he had left them, he would have gone crazy if they had disappeared. Right as he lit up a new smoke between his lips, a terrible thought plopped into his mind and he found himself running towards the kitchen.

When he opened the cupboard door to his cigarette stash his worst nightmare became reality. Sanji blanched at the sight of the empty space and almost let his cigarette drop out of his mouth.

After a few seconds of letting the situation drop in, Sanji slowly turned around and took measured steps towards Zoro’s door, the pitter patter of his naked feed on the laminate the only warning before he kicked it open.

Sanji could feel his blood boiling, like lava it was bubbling under his skin, threatening to errupt any second now. Zoro was lazily lounging around on his bed with a couple of books to study and way more empty beer cans lying around.

With a deadly calm that he did not feel he asked his roommate in a low voice:  
“Where are my cigarettes?”

  
  
  


It was hard to concentrate on registering a bunch of plants - where did they grow? how could they be found? were they edible? were they poisonous? - knowing the cook wouldn’t take too long in finding his cigarettes amiss. 

Even if he still had a couple left somewhere in his person, he would have to grab some more, for it was as though the packets alone provided him with comfort; like their presence was soothing. Of course it was the act of smoking that had its effects on Sanji, and no doubt years of chainsmoking had made him so clingy to unlit cigarettes and cardboard pieces, but still he looked a bit like a child who just cannot rest without their favourite plush toy in their hands.

He wouldn’t even have to turn to the kitchen cupboards, either, for several packets of different colours, brands and calibres were scattered all around the apartment except for Zoro’s room.

Before the night was over, Sanji would set it _on fire_.

Zoro didn’t listen to Sanji’s steps, which were frantic as he was troubled while still trying to remain cool; until he was right outside the door. Let the shitbag come - the door was always unlocked. Of course asking the furious beyond count bastard to be his polite self and open the door like a civilized man was too much. His kicking the door didn’t do as much as get Zoro’s attention.

Sanji’s voice sounded like a weather forecast. _A storm is coming._ Well, it was as they said: _a calm sea never made a skilled sailor._

“How should I know?” Zoro’s voice, on the other hand, sounded dull, as though seeing Sanji before bed was the last nail in the day’s boredom coffin. “Maybe you left them next to my booze.”

The smile Zoro gave, though… It was as demonic as the one he’d smiled that afternoon and double the crazy, for when a storm was about to blow and thunder and turn everything to smithereens, he felt a supernatural thrill. Sanji would not hold back from exploding on him.

Slowly, and while Sanji was granted a couple of seconds in advance, this playful Zoro placed his belongings on his desk and just stood there, in front of the cook; his whole body whispering ‘bring it on’.

“It’s not my fucking fault you’re _messy._ ”

  
  
  


Sanji really was not in the mood to play Zoro’s little mind-game. He was furious and about to kick ass. Zoro on the other hand seemed calm, almost bored, but his toothy grin gave away his excitement. The man was genuinely insane. He was probably the one person to know the destructive power behind Sanji’s kicks best, especially when he wasn’t holding back.

One would assume that Zoro had some suicidal tendencies but the man was not without danger as well. Like a beast, he thrived on the adrenaline of a good fight, it was almost as if he was getting drunk on it – fitting, a drunkard through and through.

Zoro knew exactly what effect his words had and Sanji was fully aware that the other man was just provoking him into the inevitable fight.

“You son-of-a-bitch!”

He lashed out with a kick to Zoro’s side, but seeing it coming, the swordsman was able to hold against it with a strong-armed block. Sanji immediately tried a different move. The room was small, too small to get into the perfect range, so his kicks could not unleash their full power. Still, Zoro’s veins on his arms stood out on the bulging muscles, proving the effort it took to block his attacks.

It almost distracted Sanji for a second, for some weird reason, and he had to dodge a fist aimed at his face last minute by bending over backwards – thankful for his flexibility – using the momentum to draw his legs into the air for an upper kick but he only grazed Zoro.

With that backflip Sanji was now suddenly with his back against the wall – damn the small room – and Zoro did not waste a second to attack again, eyes shining with enjoyment.

It was frustrating, Sanji did not know why this whole thing seemed to scratch at his very essence so much. They had fought before, countless times. Zoro always knew how to frustrate and bait the cook, they had known how to push each other’s buttons from the get-go, it was basically instinctual.

So why was it now so fucking uncomfortable for Sanji that Zoro was playing him so easily?

The thoughts were jumbling in his brain and clouding his concentration. Sanji bit down on the cigarette butt, his seemingly last anchor to sanity.

When another punch was coming his way, his reflexes made him want to step back but with that escape route cut off, Sanji did something he normally wouldn’t do, he threw himself right into the punch, bodily pushing against Zoro and making them both lose balance.

They fell onto Zoro’s bed but immediately continued the roughhousing until Sanji was caught under Zoro for good, the swordsman skillfully pinning his legs to the mattress with his own and his massive muscle weight on his hips. He didn’t even bother to pin the blond’s arms down, too, knowing full well that his upper body strength was superior to the cook’s.

Sanji had lost the fight, his legs were still twitching under Zoro but it was useless. In the stupid squabble he had lost his cigarette, it was probably somewhere on the sheets put out by them rolling over it, but it did not matter anymore.

His pulse was thumping loudly in his ears, his heart beating fast. Pure, utter frustration! He wanted to scream.

Sanji buried his hands in Zoro’s shirt, gripping the fabric over his chest tightly in his fists. He didn’t pull him down even though for the fraction of a moment Sanji had the impulse to do just that.

“What…have you done…..to my cigarettes?”

Still out of breath, his question came out erratic. He glared up at Zoro, silently demanding a real answer, and held his gaze when the other man kept looking down at him with an unreadable expression.

“They’re gone.” He said, without a trace of amusement this time, just stating the fact.

For a second, anger flared up inside Sanji once more but immediately died down again, leaving him numb. Not that he could’ve done much in that position anyway.

Gone, he said, that meant he had gotten rid of them. Sanji hadn’t touched the fucking alcohol, just relocated it. He had wanted to keep an eye on it for Zoro’s sake, as he had pretty much – more or less – told the fucker!

Sanji didn’t know what to say to that. He loosened his grip on Zoro’s shirt, giving his strong chest a weak shove as the only response to that revelation. He leaned back into the sheets, closing his eyes for a moment. Somehow this had all gone so spectacularly wrong real fast. Shitty Marimo.

  
  
  


Of course to accuse Sanji of being the messy one when it had been his own liberal view on housekeeping the catalyst for the whole affair was the coup de grâce. And there it was: an insult far from being Sanji’s personal best, followed by a kick far from surprising. 

When it came to fighting, Sanji knew what he was doing. Zoro would never say it to his face, or even to his own reflection in the mirror, but he did understand his friends power. He would have to be a straight-out fool not to acknowledge so after having seen Sanji use his legs as living whips so many a time.

Still, there was only so much you could achieve with your lower members when fighting with an adversary that knew you to the very core. It was difficult for an element of surprise to pop up; and Sanji might very well say the same thing about Zoro. It was rare for either of them to get seriously injured whenever they fought, as they could pretty much anticipate and feel each other.

Sanji’s attack lacked the element of surprise but that didn’t stop it from being powerful, resulting in Zoro having to put his strength in his arm so as to block it. His hand took a firm grip on Sanji’s bare foot. Expected, yes, but far from boring anymore. Zoro kept on grinning and took the chance his enraged friend allowed him when he got distracting by whatever it was. 

There was a fist, a jump, another kick, and overall a poor execution due to the size of the room. Perhaps they should have thought about this issue when they were looking for an apartment to share; but then again it was not like Zoro had pictured he would have Sanji spending time in his room as a weighing factor and, as far he could tell, Sanji hadn’t included him when choosing a bedchamber either.

Again Zoro attacked, clearly enjoying himself as though he were playing a game. Behind his oversized hellish grin, he felt Sanji was not quite giving it his all. With nothing else to attribute it to, seeing as anger would make him an exceptional fighter, Zoro attributed Sanji’s distraction to some form of fear resulting from not knowing where his grand stash was.

They fell onto the bed. That, too, was not completely unexpected though it was never part of the plan, for incredible things were bound to happen when both of them were slaves to their instincts. Zoro’s gorilla-ish figure had no trouble pinning his foe down and keeping him in place. It was all good fun, part of the game. Boys just happened to fight; that much was human trivia.

When Sanji pulled him by the shirt, however, Zoro felt something had gone wrong this time and he couldn’t say it was the first time he felt so, too. The way Sanji did it by grabbing the shirt off his chest with both his hands rather than pull its collar… It was out of being dumbfounded that his answer concerning the whereabouts of Sanji’s property came so emotionless.

What the hell was going on with shitbrows? One moment he was all flailing legs, the next he was twisting under Zoro like some lowly creature, and from there he went on acting defeated. It was pitiful to see.

Zoro, still hovering Sanji, watched his mate lean back and give up. 

He didn’t regret his actions, though. The way he saw it, things had started to go bad from the moment Sanji had touched his booze and not a moment before. He ought to suffer a bit and then a lot, as it would take him time - not to mention money - to restock. 

“It’s all your fucking fault, cook” he proceeded to explain. “You had no business touching my stuff. You just…” Zoro never finished his speech, for the awkwardness of it all dawned on him. 

He had Sanji in his bed; his mouth completely free for once. The music he had selected on his smartphone was still playing in the background and it sounded as though someone had pressed play on cue when in fact it had never stopped playing. For a rare moment there was no smell of cigarette about him; only the smell of his freshly-applied deodorant to fill Zoro’s nostrils. The swordsman didn’t like it - it was not the scent he knew.  

And, to make matters worse, the icing on the cake was the fact Sanji was _vulnerable_. He wasn’t acting right - for all Zoro knew, he might even not be thinking right. 

Without even deciding it, Zoro had joined him. They were stationary, almost horizontal, exchanging nothing but breaths. Were they scarcely dressed, they might have passed for a Classical statue, the epithome of male beauty and strength.

When Zoro talked, his voice sounded throaty. “You dumbfuck cook”

  
  
  


Sanji opened his eyes again and was inclined to roll them in annoyance, when Zoro started his explanation of whose fault this all was in his – quite frankly – unrequested opinion, but he thankfully interrupted himself and spared the blond the bullshit reasoning. Though, what exactly it was that made the moss-for-brains stop mid-sentence was anyone’s best guess and Sanji just blinked in confusion.

In the silence that Zoro’s absent words left pushed forward the background music, which the cook had not noticed before. The current song playing was weirdly atmospheric and suddenly Sanji was intensely aware of his position; on his roommates bed, under said roommate.

Zoro’s smell was all around him, in the chamber, in the sheets and unsurprisingly on the man himself, Sanji noticed that he didn’t quite dislike it. Actual understatement of the year.

It was a quite familiar smell, he was sharing an apartment with the algae-head after all, but most of the time he did not experience it in such intensity as the booze used to be the more penetrant stench across the rooms. And it was also not usual for the roommates to visit each other’s bedchambers often and for long, much less was lying in Zoro’s bed a regular occurance for Sanji.

The whiff of beer odor on his face alerted him to the fact that Zoro was now even closer than before, however that happened, and Sanji’s eyes ever so briefly flickered to the swordsman’s slightly parted lips, when he breathed out a weak and uncharacteristically fond sounding insult.

Sanji found himself in a state of inertia as his urge to lean in and close the small gap was at a stalemate with his impulse to increase the distance again.

It didn’t make sense, nothing made any sense anymore.

Something was happening, something his brain was not actively involved in and it was that thought that snapped Sanji out of whatever kind of trance that was. Afterall, impulse acting was what had gotten them into this mess, so it was time to switch back to thinking mode.

He found his fighting spirit return to his body and with a sudden twist of his hips Sanji was able to finally make Zoro roll off of him. Fucking shit, what was he doing before, letting himself be that defeated? He had shown weakness in front of Zoro. Over cigarettes. Perfect, just fucking, perfect. When would the bottom open up to swallow him whole? Anytime now would be great.

Sanji scrambled off the bed, straightening his pajamas, smoothing out folds and creases like it was one of his better suits. Standing as confident as he could he pointed an accusing finger at Zoro.

“I will make you pay for all those boxes!” He promised, then turned around and stomped out of the room. Enough was enough for the day, he needed to get some fucking sleep soon.

Really not wanting to think about anything that had happened that day at all, Sanji returned to the bathroom to resume his delayed dental hygiene. He was only focussing on getting to bed and ending the shitty day, though for a moment his bed looked like Zoro’s in his mind.

That was probably the most aggressive teeth cleaning that toothbrush had to endure.

  
  
  


The bloody idiot was not even doing anything. Who _was_ he? Who was this Sanji without quick witty remark on his lips and a quick use of the leg should something tick him off? Could something as small and stupid as a cigarette, or rather its absence, make a man really change that much?

Only Zoro’s smartphone could count how many seconds, perhaps minutes, went by with them in motionless existence. It was not just existing, in the sense of the word, for existence alone is devoid of the sense of feel and there was much to feel in that amount of time. There were smells, there were looks, there was a sense of tension to get a grip and simultaneously let go.

With the twist of his hips, Sanji’s body rubbed Zoro’s a funny way. It was nothing special, really, and such touches were not that unusual when you spent your life getting your hands on another person; but this time Zoro didn’t feel it as being common. It felt… _immoral_. 

Zoro attributed it to his own twisted perception that resulted from these recent events. Surely he was having trouble behaving himself just as Sanji was, for he, too, was mad and upset. It would all make sense in the morning; dawn was usually bringer of knowledge.

Back to his regular self, Zoro grabbed his last beer and waved it on Sanji’s back for a redeeming provocation before bed. “You sure you don’t want some beer?” he said in mockery. Sanji was looking shittier than usual and booze was the best remedy Zoro knew.

Why, he was being very _sweet_ after all.

All the weird feelings took their time to leave but finally dissipated long after Sanji and the alcohol were gone. Back to plant specimens he was and, until a new day dawned, _they_ were all that mattered.

 


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as Sanji’s head hit the pillow, he was gone to dreamland. His mental and physical exhaustion made it easy for sleep to take hold of his body, but in the course of the night weird and chaotic dreams kept rousing him from sleep.

When Sanji awoke in the early morning hours, he felt groggy from the unrestful night and all his tossing around. Despite that, he still managed to wake up way before his alarm would go off and once awake, the cook decided to make use of the extra time before classes started.

With a cup of coffe, his laptop on his thighs and a blanked around his shoulders, Sanji cuddled up on the couch in the living room, typing away on an essay for his Regional Cuisine class that was due by the end of the week.

Sanji managed to finish up his writing, saved it and shut down the computer. Satisfied with his productivity he closed the laptop with a big yawn and left his comfortable position on the warm couch to get dressed and ready for the day.

Nicely dressed and fresh out of the bathroom, Sanji immediately took to the kitchen to work on breakfast. Knowing that Zoro was not too fond of the sweet variety, the cook made some savory pancakes with goat’s cheese and butternut squash folded into the batter, served with dressed rocket salad, a sprinkling of pumpkin seeds and onion chutney on the side.

Sanji set aside a plate with a big portion for Zoro to eat whenever he would get up, although after the whole disaster that was the previous day he should just let him starve, or worse, let him make his own food. Just the thought of Zoro’s ‘cooking’ made a shiver run through his body. The Marimo could be glad that Sanji was always cooking plenty and not one for wasting food. Zoro would never get a healthier diet than when he was living with Sanji, that was for sure.

A quick glance at his watch told him that he still had time to get some proviant for the day ready. With his leftover wholegrain toast he made himself some simple sandwiches. After toasting the bread he spread some humous equally over one side of each of the slices, piling on the avocado, rocket, and tomato and seasoning each layer with pepper.

The Marimo’s sandwiches were made with rye toast. Sanji mixed peeled and grated carrots with raisins, olive oil and vinegar, seasoning it and adding some mint for the extra note. Once again he spread the bread slices with humous and topped them with the carrot mix.

Sanji cut the sandwiches in triangles to better fit them in their respective lunch boxes and set Zoro’s box into the refrigerator. The pancakes he placed on the counter, safe under plastic wrap. Thanks to routine there was no need for Sanji to write Zoro a note about his food, he’d know it was his, nobody else was living there with them after all.

His own lunch box along with a big bottle of water and his huge-ass university folder as well as anything else he needed for classes today was packed into his bag. Sanji left his laptop in his room, even though it was way lighter than his heavy folder and probably more practical as well, the cook preferred to take notes the old-school way, by writing per hand on paper. He only used his laptop for the actual homework and assignments.

Sanji’s last pack of cigarettes was placed in his pocket. He had started the day with a lot of restraint and only smoked two cigarettes so far. On his way to university he would definitely have to get one or two new packs for his sanity. Throwing a dirty glance at his nightstand to the alcohol still hidden inside, Sanji still had no clue what to do with the bottles. He was not one to waste food or drink, so getting rid of it was out of the question, yet after yesterday’s stunt Zoro would also never see a drop of his precious liquor again, he swore to that.

He would have to worry about that issue later, though. Pocketing his phone, keys and wallet – checking the latter for enough money to finance his cigarette addiction – Sanji heaved the heavy bag on his shoulder and left the house for another long day of lectures.

  
  
  


Zoro did not believe in God but even if he did, when he woke up the next day, there was no way he could possibly thank God it was Friday. To others, the weekend meant resting from the week’s classes and to engage in two days of delightful activities - to Zoro, it meant spending two days cooped up with the cook.

Now that they were on even unfriendlier terms, those two days might feel like twenty.

This Friday began like so many others, with Zoro waking up pretty much as early as Sanji but avoiding him by staying in his room and use the energy hours of sleep had mustered to do some push-ups and sit-ups. Not being a bit fan of showering but knowing he couldn’t walk into class smelling like someone who’d had spent a few days lost in the jungle; he washed his armpits in the bathroom sink and rolled a best-choice deodorant over the skin. There was the morning routine wrapped up.

His bed made and his duffel bag packed with everything he needed for the day, the young man braced himself to walk into the kitchen and see Sanji flipping pancakes while showing off his ridiculous ‘Kiss The Cook’ apron. But the kitchen was empty: only a neat serving of pancakes present to welcome him. 

Sanji had made breakfast for _him?_ After their fight the day before? After Zoro admitting to getting rid of Sanji’s stash, which was not only an invaluable stimulant to the organism but a costly necessity to the wallet as well? After all that chaos… his roommate had given himself the trouble of cooking him some delicious pancakes.

Zoro wolfed down his breakfast without taking a good look at it - he didn’t need to; he knew Sanji’s dishes always involved a good deal of preparation - and skipped his daily exercise of trying to guess what exactly had Sanji shoved in there. There were always so many tastes and textures in his cooking it was hard to figure what was going on. Maybe fancy people with fancy palates would do a better job, but a man who found his beer tastier when drank right from the bottle rather than served in a glass could not be expected to understand such richness.

 _It’s just his job,_ Zoro thought, just like it was his own job to get in touch with the staff when something required fixing - and that did happen rather often with these two roomies that seemed to have a thirst for each other’s blood. Everything else they tried to divide 50/50, for none of them was a complete asshole so as to overload the other.

When he saw his lunch carefully cut into triangles, though, Zoro knew he couldn’t fool himself any longer. There was no way something done so carefully could be anyone’s job. 

Sanji must have invested so much time in those sandwiches, time he could have used to study. And how much _love_? Zoro knew nothing so pretty and delicate as this could be made without affection, for only love could give one the patience, will and want for perfectionism to create such a pretty thing. Even the best swordsman in the world would see his abilities amount to little if he didn’t have affection for the art.

Zoro spent a couple of minutes eyeing the lunch box in his hands, not even noticing he hadn’t closed the fridge door yet. He was feeling a bit bad now, for some reason he couldn’t quite grasp.

(…)

As the day went on - and after a couple of mid-lecture power naps - Zoro felt the want for some alcohol to rise in him. It woke up and it was grumpy and it threw a tantrum, demanding to be fulfilled. With his last bill loosely sitting in his pocket, he marched to the mart closest to home and made some accounting: what could he buy with that money? Which brand? How many units? That was the kind of mathematics he busied his mind with.

The house was still empty when he entered it, a bag with just a couple of groceries on his arm. Weekend was here now, and with it a new storm was bound to burst. 

Zoro removed a precious item from the paper bag and left the rest atop the counter except for the milk, which he placed inside the refrigerator. This was something nice for Sanji, he knew it, but since the cook would spend so many ingredients making food for him as well, this resulted in something nice for both of them.

After locking the aforementioned item not in his drinks’ cabinet but inside his wardrobe, Zoro grabbed some clean underwear and entered the bathroom for a shower before the cook got home. It wasn’t like he’d trouble himself with carrying anything else if he were home, either.

  
  
  


In hindsight, scheduling ‘Food Service Management’ and 'Certification in Food Service Safety and Sanitation’ into the early hours of Friday was not the best timetable planning. Those classes dragged on, especially when Sanji was tired and weekend was tantalizingly close. He still had to go through 'Commercial Wedding Cake Production’ after those two, but that one was one of Sanji’s favourite classes, so he always ended the week on a good note after all.

After his last class, Sanji briefly considered throwing a peek into the mensa to see if he could get a glimpse of one of his friends from their clique inside but at this hour it was usually packed full with hungry students. He decided to pay the library a visit instead, he needed some books for a new assignment and wanted to get his hands on them before someone else would snag them away under his nose. Sanji hated being on the waiting list for a certain book. There were never enough exemplars of the books most needed and it was always a fight for the best sources amongst the students.

Being on a waiting list also wasn’t a guarantee to get the needed book in time as some people did not bother returning them even if they were past the return deadline. They’d rather pay the fee and inconvenience all the other students in need of that book, those assheads.

Sanji was scanning the bookshelves for the first book on his list, running his finger along the bottom of the spines, where the library sorting code was, and repeatedly mumbling the letters and numbers he was looking for. He had looked up the Dewey decimal classification code for the books on the database downstairs on one of the research computers before.

In no time Sanji had his arms full with the books he needed - a rare lucky moment to actually get his hands on _all_ the books on his list – and he was scrambling for the library card in his bag.

On his way to the check-out machines Sanji spotted Usopp sitting at one of the working desks, surrounded by a pile of books and a stack of papers. With a smile on his face, Sanji approached his friend but Usopp did not seem to notice his presence and kept frowning at the pages of a really old and heavy looking book, deep in concentration.

Sanji let his three books fall on the table with a thump, contrary to proper library etiquette, and slipped into the seat besides his friend. At the sudden sound Usopp jumped in surprise and stared at him with wide eyes, his expression turning into a happy one as soon as he recognized him.

They greeted each other with a grin and a half-hug, after meeting for the first time in over a week, maybe even two. The days go by fast, packed with classes and assignments, and even though they had a couple of their friends studying at this university, it was not that likely they’d meet on this huge campus and with the different faculties spread out over various areas. They could only hope to chance upon each other in the communal places like the mensa, the smaller cafeterias across campus or the library.

Every once in a while someone would text and ask to hang out if a class had been cancelled or to meet up if there was any free time at all, but their timetables did not align too well most of the time.

“I almost didn’t recognize you with your nose that deep in that book” Sanji nodded to the weighty tome, keeping his voice low.

“Urgh,” Usopp shook his head, “I just don’t get what this paragraph is trying to tell me,” he whispered back.

Sanji nodded in understanding. Those academics really had to try and make everything sound as complicated as possible, as if students had to be busied with decoding those texts lest they die of boredom.

“Where is Luffy?” That was more of a rhetorical question, really. Luffy had chosen the same course of study as Usopp and so the two were mostly together, but Luffy really wasn’t the type to spend hours studying in the library and considering it was lunch time, Sanji could basically pretty easily guess the whereabouts of the other boy.

“Duh,” Usopp raised his eye-brows at how obvious this was, “at the mensa, of course,” he confirmed the cook’s suspicions.

“And you’re not hungry?” He inquired instead and Usopp blushed bright red before mumbling something about Kaya having brought him lunch or something.

He gave Usopp a friendly clap on his shoulder and congratulated him, but his friend was bent on playing it down. “I-it’s not like that! She is just a nice girl and it does not mean anything.”

Now it was Sanji’s turn to raise a brow in disbelief. “Dude, she specifically made you a lunch box and went out of her way to meet you and give it to you. The woman is studying medicine, I’m sure you’ve noticed that faculty is on the other side of the campus? She is totally into you, go for it!”

“You’re cooking for Zoro, too. By that logic…” Usopp deadpanned, not letting go of his insecurities so easily and trying to change the focus.

The blond’s smile fell from his face and was replaced by a frown immediately. “Oh, don’t mention that stupid, green gorilla, we are currently at war. Also, we’re living together and I’m just taking pity on him, I’m a cook after all, it’s my job to feed people. Totally different from your situation. Trust me, she likes you!”

Absolutely ignoring Sanji’s message, Usopp jumped on the new information. “What do you mean you’re at war? Is that better or worse than your usual fighting?”

“Haha. Worse! Zoro crossed the line.” Seeing the curiosity shine in his friend’s eyes, Sanji just waved him off. “I’ll tell you some other time.”

Usopp’s shoulders slumped in disappointment, he was always up for some gossip and usually Sanji would indulge him. He would love to share the details of Zoro’s gruesome deed with his friend, but then he would also have to talk about the part where he kind of started the whole situation and so far the Marimo had one win over him. Until he had at least evened out the score, Sanji would keep this between the two of them.

After some more light chatting about this and that, the friends said goodbye and Sanji went to check out his books and get back home.

He quickly slipped into the kiosk on campus to get two Marlboro packs as he had just finished his old one when he lit the last cigarette outside the library. Pocketing the receipt he had specifically asked for, Sanji planned to make Zoro pay for the next 20 packs to pay off his destroyed stash but seeing as how his roommate was almost always broke, this was probably quite futile.

With a sigh Sanji repositioned the books in his arms for a more comfortable hold and finally made his way home.

  
  


Entering their apartment, the cook slipped out of his shoes and went right to his room to unpack, throwing his bag and books on his bed. Zoro currently seemed to be in the bathroom, he had heard the rare sound of the shower on his way to his room. After stashing away one of his two new packs, Sanji returned to the kitchen, curious about the grocery bag on the counter he had seen when he entered the apartment.

Peeking inside the plastic bag, Sanji blinked in confusion. Zoro normally was not the type to do grocery shopping, though, of course he sometimes brought something back with him whenever he went to buy some booze. This weird array of mostly healthy food, though, was a bit out of the usual. It wasn’t much and judging by the random selection Zoro was probably going for cheapest, but it was still a fresh and useful selection, Sanji was admittedly a bit pleased. There was even new milk in the fridge.

“If this is supposed to be a peace offering, you’ll have to do a bit better still,” Sanji mumbled and grinned to himself. He had to actively remind himself that he was indeed still pissed off at Zoro but could not deny that he found the gesture somewhat endearing.

In a surprisingly good mood and with fresh inspiration for what to make out of the new ingredients, Sanji donned his apron and started cooking with a mindless tune on his lips in place of his usual cigarette.

  
  


  
Zoro took more time than he should in the bathroom, not doing anything at all. He was thinking, a pastime he excelled at more than Sanji gave him credit for but which he wasn’t particularly fond of doing. Now that he had some fucking peace, he allowed himself to relive last day’s events and try to make his best guess at what exactly had happened, and how it had happened.

The chronology was simple enough to figure out: he had found his drinks amiss, the result of the cook’s mischief, and he had paid him back by discarding his cigarettes. Finding this, Sanji had tried to fight him and ‘try’ was the rightful verb, for his flatmate hadn’t done much fighting. Something had stayed him and rendered his powerful leg useless. 

Though he was a cook by his soul and one day by his own merit given a diploma, no student on campus dared to mistake Sanji’s care with decorating tiny cakes for him being an easy target. His kicks were renowned across all faculties - Sanji was part tender arms and delicate hands, part strong legs and vigorous feet.

Yet, and despite the fact Zoro was a worthy opponent and probably the only one on Earth who could rival him, he hadn’t put up a fight. It seemed like he had only staged one. There was still the addiction factor to account for.

If in the end it all came down to cigarettes and the sheer discovery had made Sanji go wild and not-so-functional, what would hours of deprivation do? What would days do? This was Sanji’s first day on rations and if he was down on his money and had to make the call between his sticks and his ingredients, it was obvious which he would pick. 

Zoro was really looking forward to seeing Sanji become a shredded skin of himself. Naturally, Zoro wasn’t thinking with all his brain cells: as much as he enjoyed it when Sanji was annoyed, to see him _hurt_ or _miserable_ was an entirely different matter. He wouldn’t admit it but Zoro was sure to raise hell should anyone make his friend feel less than human.

Not having what to drink was taking its toll on him, not to mention his last, secret purchase was also making him pose himself some questions.

Zoro walked out of the shower and, first things first, applied some deodorant. He shook his head pretty much like a dog would post-bath and with the right towel dabbed the water out. The towel he placed around his shoulders before getting into his boxer briefs.

All this time, with the sound of the water running and the voices of his thoughts filling his head like a busy beehive, he had not noticed Sanji coming home, let alone him cooking. Thus, it was a surprise when he stepped into the kitchen to get a glass of fresh milk from the refrigerator - a sorry excuse for beer - and saw Sanji heating his belly on the stove. His apron was tied around the waist in a neat bow.

Sanji didn’t immediately notice his green-haired friend. He was busy cooking whatever fancy thing it was and humming a tune. He was like some motherfucking tobacco fiend Disney Princess. Zoro half-expected to find some sort of woodland critter helping him bake an apple pie. 

He seemed peaceful, though, or was he trying to pretend the shortage was not taking a toll? Whichever option was the truth, it greatly annoyed Zoro. How come Curly Brows could be so happy when _he_ was feeling like shit? Sober-by-force Zoro was irritable and didn’t feel like there was a place for happiness, not next to him, not in his damn kitchen and living space.

It did smell really good, though, whatever sweet or savoury thing he was getting his hands on, though, and Zoro’s stomach was seduced by the fragrance. 

“Smells good, that. What are you cooking?” Zoro asked as he catwalked to the fridge in nothing but his underwear. He didn’t even think it was an issue, considering they were both men and men couldn’t be troubled by such natural things as feeling comfortable in your own house. His self-advertising campaign continued as he got the milk carton out from the cold and took a chug right out of it.

  
  


  
In the middle of cooking, despite the enjoyment from his craft and the distraction provided by it, his need for a cigarette became overwhelming, so Sanji pulled one out of his new pack and lit it, continuing his little song with renewed vigor, when his lungs finally filled with the calming smoke.

He had not noticed Zoro entering the kitchen and jumped a little at the compliment to his cooking and the question of what it actually was he was making coming out of nowhere. This was a weird day, compliments from Zoro, no matter how basic, were rare. A smile was playing around his lips as he kept his eyes on the meat he was currently turning in the pan.

“I am making chicken prosciutto roulades with- ….” The rest of the words got stuck in his throat as Sanji turned his head to address the Marimo directly and the sight that met his eyes left him literally speechless.

Zoro, like usual, did not see the need to get fully dressed when at home, which actually wasn’t something new to the cook, he had seen the swordsman half-naked more than he could count. This time was no different, Zoro had left the bathroom in nothing but his underwear, really low sitting underwear, and apparently he hadn’t bothered to even dry off completely.

There were still plenty of waterdrops on his bronze skin, being pulled down by gravity, making their way over every ridge and valley of his body landscape, leaving behind small trails in their journey. They were somehow hypnotizing to watch. Some drops fell onto the kitchen tiles, like his cigarette did when Sanji actually, fucking gasped at the sight presented to him, some others met with the waistband of Zoro’s boxers and dampened the fabric there.

The heat in the kitchen became a different kind of heat. Sanji snapped his gaze back to Zoro’s upper body when he realized he had stared at the man’s crotch for a second or two. The cook felt his throat go dry when Zoro’s muscles moved tantalizingly under his skin in his arm and back, when he opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a milk carton. Popping the lid open, he drank right out of the package, throwing his head back and gulping the liquid down, displaying the length of his corded neck and Sanji just could not pull his eyes from it, watching Zoro’s Adam’s apple bob up and down with every gulp he took.

Only when Zoro finished drinking, wiping away a trail of milk from the corner of his mouth – something about that white liquid made this moment feel very obscene – and meeting his eyes with a questioning look, did Sanji avoid his gaze as if caught doing something indecent.

He crouched down, wanting to pick up his lost smoke but it had landed in a small puddle that Zoro’s feet had left behind and the cigarette had been successfully snuffed out and gotten soaked. He picked it up anyways, glaring at it, while Zoro put the rest of the milk back into the fridge and closed its door.

Sanji realized that he had uncharacteristically interrupted himself and hoped his roommate had at least not noticed his staring. Fuck him for looking like a Greek god raiding his fridge! The blond felt uncomfortably hot under the collar. Being on cigarette rations really messed with his brain chemistry apparently, this was more than odd.

Trying to pull himself together and playing down what had just transpired, Sanji tried to blame everything on Zoro’s lack of manners. He straightened up and pointed the wet smoke accusingly into his roommate’s face.

“How often do I have to tell you it’s disgusting to drink right from the package! Can’t you just drink out of a glass like a normal person or is that too difficult for you, moss-for-brains?!” His voice came out a little raspy at first but steadied itself through his tirade.

He stemmed his fists into his hip, like a mother scolding her child, and continued:

“And can’t you even dry off completely? I commend you on finally taking a shower but I’d appreciate it if you would not put the kitchen or any other part of our apartment under water afterwards. Look at this mess!”

Sanji felt breathless, not from his little word-vomit but from something else entirely. His shirt seemed to be choking him, so he angrily popped open the first two buttons of it to get some breathing space and turned back to the stove to gather his wits, absentmindedly biting his lower lip in a nervous display.

  
  
  


Three, five, ten. More than ten seconds passed without Sanji finishing to explain his dish. Maybe it was for the better that he’d shut up, for Zoro felt lost and bored right at ‘prosciutto’. 

Still, it was not every day that Sanji would do the favour of shutting the fuck up. In fact, whenever Zoro made the mistake of asking him what he was cooking it might as well be mass time, Zoro being the sole attendee to Father Sanji’s holy preaching of foreign ingredients with funny names and gospels of world cuisine. It was theological knowledge to the cook. Hours seemed to pass until Sanji was done lecturing his friend on every little step he had taken, with a lot of self-critique and reassurance aside.

Sanji’s silence was yet another oddity. Could it be an effect of… Wait, there between his lips the bastard held a cigarette. He was not as deprived of his pleasures as Zoro was - maybe he had spent the day a-begging for smokes from other members of the student body; maybe he had combed their every item of furniture for some loose change - and that had to mean it was not tobacco shortage that was messing with Sanji’s brain - and the fucker didn’t have much of a brain to start with.

He didn’t even notice when his cigarette, to which the bastard would always cling as if his life would end unless he sucked all its essence to the very core - fell to the floor. Oh so he was losing his marbles after all, was he? **Good.**

Zoro simply did his thing and cursed Sanji for his bad timing in stopping to function just before he finished dinner! Was the bastard so big an idiot he didn’t even know it would be most opportune to go useless after dinner was on the table? Zoro’s look spoke volumes of what he currently thought of his friend and his newly-discovered inability.

The provocation was too little and it came too late. Honestly, 'moss-for-brains’ was getting old. Also calm down, will you? It’s just a bit of water, it’s bound to evaporate.

“Hey cook, your chicken shit is burning” Zoro pointed at the stove without bothering to take a sideways glance at it. Even the prospect of a domestic fire was appreciated. Maybe being roasted was better than to spend an entire weekend without the faintest drop or scent of alcohol.

Rather than help the cook, he pulled a chair and sat at the table, his arms folded as to say he was waiting.

  
  
  


Pocketing the wet cigarette to dry later, Sanji immediately had a look at his chicken roulades, after Zoro nonchalantly claimed they were burning. They were not, luckily!

The fucker didn’t even try to defend himself, having caught on that the cook was somehow off his game, and just sat down at the table. Sanji tried to concentrate on the food but remained very aware of his roommate’s presence behind his back.

The wet tiles annoyed him, with every step he made he could feel his sole slipping a bit on the watery floor. He really did not want to clean up behind Zoro again, he was not his fucking maid and didn’t want the green bastard to get used to it.

But who was he kidding, just by living together with him Zoro was already beyond spoiled by the cook and Sanji really wasn’t in the mood to slip and crack his head open on the counter or wherever. So he angrily ripped a couple of sheets of paper towels off the roll and threw them on the ground to soak up the water. Zoro really had it in for him, Sanji started to believe Zoro truly wanted to see him dead for touching his stupid alcohol.

Fuck holding back on smoking, he really needed another cigarette, especially as the last one did not really do much before drowning in a puddle. Sanji pulled out another smoke from his box and lit it, keeping it loosely between his lips, while finishing up the dish.

This weekend would have been ideal to go out and get off some steam by dancing in a club with some nice ladies. He hadn’t been able to do that in a while and neither would he this weekend. Clubbing would cost money, even if you didn’t empty half the bar like Zoro – no wonder dude was always broke as fuck! - and Sanji had gone a little over-budget by buying those two Marlboro packages today. But a weekend without cigarettes was unthinkable. Not that he would even last until Sunday at this rate, not to mention what he would do when he ran out…

Arranging the roulades and the side dishes on two plates, he placed them on the table, one at his place and the other right in front of Zoro’s waiting figure. He returned to the kitchen to hang up his apron and pick up the paper towels to throw them in the trash. His smoke had burned down towards the filter so he snubbed out the glowing butt in the ashtray on the counter before taking his seat at the table and scowling at Zoro.

“You really are a neanderthal,” Sanji declared, shaking his head at his roommate, who was at least dry now.

  
  
  


The slippery floor was not bothering Zoro - in case Sanji didn’t know, there was this magnificent phenomenon where water just _fucked off_ \- and even if that was a regular worry of his, his mind was too busy now to care about something so trivial.

Sanji’s salvaging didn’t go unnoticed. Did he actually consider shoving that shit in his mouth after it falling to the floor? And worse, to shove that shit in his mouth after it being immersed in the water that had swam across Zoro’s body? The blond man could hardly be called a pig when he got so upset at mere water - his addiction had to be _that_ strong.

“I was gonna do that after dinner” he said in a bored voice when Sanji threw the paper flowers to the floor. He wasn’t being completely honest, of course, and then again he half-expected his friend to bend over and mop the floor. It was a shame that he didn’t, for the humiliation would have been most entertaining.

Zoro had thought the shipwrecked cigarette had been Sanji’s last one and knowing he had inadvertently caused its death resulted in an extra tasty victory. The sweetness in his mouth turned to something sour - no - to ash when the swordsman realized his friend had yet another packet. But how come, when he had gotten rid of every single one of them till the last? Just where was he keeping those things? It was like the cook had an infinite stock of the bloody things stored in his ass!

Although he hadn’t exactly been smiling until then, Zoro’s face turned into a death stare. He wasn’t just upset anymore, he was positively mad! So mad he couldn’t appreciate the work Sanji had put into his beautiful dish unlike he had done earlier that same day.

The swordsman was feeling pretty flammable and Sanji’s ‘Neanderthal’ remark lit his fuse.

It was not the first time Zoro thought that one day, should anyone cut Sanji open (himself, most likely), they would find an anthropomorphic mass of tar living inside of him like a revolting Renaissance artwork, curly brows and a tiny sculpted cigarette and everything. 

This idea was what made him reply “Oh I am, am I? Well, my Neanderthal ass smells better than your mouth!“ 

Though they were at the table, there was no way they could be civilized and go on pretending their little domestic life had not gone an extra sour mile lately.

Zoro shoved a bit of ‘what the fuck it was’ into his mouth. It was not fair! Why did he have to go fully sober while the cook was still allowed to suck the life right out of his death sticks? Did he know how awful it was having to deal with him chainsmoking 24/7 like it was illegal not to? 

After getting the meal over with in no time - a truly primitive way of enjoying a meal - Zoro quickly went to his room, pulled on his tracksuit bottoms and returned to the kitchen, where Sanji was still taking his time appreciating all the different nuances he had put into his dinner. The swordsman got right behind his chair and, left hand on the back of Sanji’s chair and body slightly bent over him, moved his right arm forward and opened the palm of his hand as if begging.

“Hand ‘em over, Cook”

  
  
  


Moodswings seemed to be a thing between them, especially in the current situation. Zoro got really pissy about his comment and kept throwing him dirty looks over the meal that he wolfed down in record time, almost as fast as Luffy would have, almost only though.

The cook took his time eating, like you’re supposed to, and tried to enjoy his meal but Zoro’s sour mood and lack of manners made it really hard. Unsurprisingly, the Marimo finished before him and Sanji was almost relieved when he stood up and stomped to his room.

It wasn’t even a fucking minute before Zoro returned though. Sanji noticed the other man had at least managed to get half-dressed now, he still looked like a gorilla who had the jungle growing on his head.

When Zoro positioned himself behind Sanji, looming over him, and almost shoved his hand into his face, demanding he hand “them” over, the blond put another bite of his delicious meal into his mouth and chewed angrily.

He did not appreciate getting caged in like that, between Zoro’s bulking body and the table in front he had nowhere to go. He hated that this whole intimitation game they were apparently playing was supposed to make him feel small and threatened, as if that would ever work with the Marimo.

Nonetheless, that humiliation shtick sat not well with Sanji and stirred unpleasant memories. Zoro and him normally fought on equal footing, surely often with biting words and the intent to make the other feel like shit, but mostly with moderate success.

With this whole booze and cigarette incident though, Sanji had been feeling like he was on the losing end, he would not just give in and hand back the bottles. It was a matter of stupid, shitty pride now.

With a ‘clink’ Sanji put the fork down on the plate, still half-full, and slapped the hand away.

“First of all, if you ask for something you usually face the person,” he turned around in his chair, twisting his torso to look at his roommate, “and ask nicely.” Sanji looked up into Zoro’s narrowed eyes, not even flinching at the cold gaze of hatred he met, honestly, he had been expecting that.

“Secondly, … no!” The blond thought he would get a fist to the face any second now. Judging by the muscle-head’s white-knuckled grip on the backrest of his chair, he wasn’t far from it. It only made the cook grow even more defiant.

“You don’t really believe that I’d just hand over your booze and go ‘why, thank you for destroying my shit, let’s have a toast to it’?! I won’t fucking reward you for being an asshole, shithead!”

Zoro looked like he would love to smash the cook’s face in right now. He was welcome to try.

But he didn’t.

Not yet. Zoro stepped back and ordered him to stand up. Ah, the honorable swordsman would not beat him up while in a disadvantageous position. Sanji cocked his head to the side and grinned smugly. “I have not finished my meal yet,” he simply stated and turned back around to the table to continue eating in an orderly fashion.

Zoro was fuming behind him but Sanji was confident he would never have to worry about getting attacked from behind by the disciplined man. He let the tirade of insults just rain upon him and ignored his roommate while he finished his meal in a forcedly calm manner.

It seemed ages before Zoro finally left for his room, Sanji’s jaws had been hurting from the tense chewing. Finally alone, he relaxed and only then noticed how tense he had been this whole time. This was really energy draining.

He fished a new smoke from his pack and lit it up, then brought the dishes to the sink to start cleaning them. Sanji switched off his brain and let habit take over for these mundane tasks. When the kitchen was spotless, he decided to retreat to his room. The communal areas of the apartment were not where he wanted to linger, in case Zoro was up for another confrontation.

Back in his bedroom, Sanji pulled the drowned cigarette from his pocket. He had almost forgotten about it. Under normal circumstances he would have just gotten rid of the destroyed smoke. Now that he was without a stash and his stress chain-smoking really made it hard to stay on a rigid ration, he was trying to salvage whatever he could, so he placed the poor excuse for a cigarette in a place where it could dry.

Deciding that he should probably use the time to work on some assignments, Sanji made himself comfortable on his bed with his laptop on his thighs. He ended up aimlessly clicking around random social media pages, went on Youtube to watch some capoeira matches he had only seen a million times before, and finally closed it shut.

Pacing his room, his mind kept running in circles along with his body. His cigarettes wouldn’t completely calm him down, so he kept craving another stick after another.

His useless idling only stopped when Sanji heard some noises from somewhere in the apartment. Opening the door to check what was going on in the rest of the house, the cook spotted the Marimo in his kitchen, cupboard doors ajar and a bottle in hand that he recognized instantly.

Sanji immediately ran over to him, pulling the bottle from Zoro’s grasp.

“What the fuck are you doing with my Sauvignon Blanc?!” Sanji stared at the considerably emptier bottle of white wine. “Are you completely nuts now?!”

Baffled at Zoro’s extreme desperation, the cook wasn’t even able to find the right words to scream.

This white wine was specifically for cooking, it had a moderate alcohol content and generous acidity, ideal for the kitchen, particularly delicious in seafood dishes or with sauces utilizing heavy cream.

It was definitely not something Zoro would normally drink, considering that the alcohol content was only 10% and his roommate always scoffed at Sanji’s taste for a good wine.

Rubbing his temples to counter the incoming headache at least a bit, Sanji only mumbled more to himself than Zoro. “I can’t fucking live like this.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

There was nothing selfish in this request of Zoro’s, it was all for the greater good. Why couldn’t the idiot cook understand that?

The way Zoro saw it, his drinking habit harmed no one else’s liver but his own, which was to say no one was getting hurt. His liver was pretty sturdy, an exceptional case that ought to be analyzed by scientists, though the same could be said of the man as whole. There were times it seemed Zoro had very little of human in him.

After all, how could this habit of his affect Sanji? It wasn’t like Zoro ever got drunk and gave birth to chaos. Fights, broken furniture, assorted injuries and mild embarrassments happened when he was _sober_.

Sanji’s overuse of tobacco, on the other hand, was a **bad habit** that affected more than his lungs: their apartment always smelled like shit. How could Zoro focus on his assignments, training, meditation or anything at all when he had that revolting smell invading his nostrils at all times? 

Even in his bedroom the smell would sometimes appear, which was quite a feat as Sanji, as a rule, didn’t linger there. There was also an ulterior motive for wanting Sanji to cut down his consumption…

In silence, the rhythm of the cook’s silver the only sound to hear, Zoro awaited with an open palm, hoping Sanji would offer him his last carton. (It _had to be_ his last.) The dumb idiot denied it - this was for the greater good!

‘You don’t really believe that I’d just hand over your booze’ the cook said… Hand over? Hadn’t he disposed of it like Zoro had done to the cigarettes? Did Sanji have his bottles and cans stored in their apartment as hostages of glass and tin? Why, he hadn’t seen them anywhere!

The moment Zoro considered this possibility, there was nothing he wanted more than to hit Sanji - hit him for the trouble, hit him for his stubborness, hit him for _not understanding_ jack. If something steadied him, it was his sense of honour.

After closing the door to his room, Zoro’s fist met the wall in a punch that chapped some of the cheap paint around it. His eyes twitched in immense fury as he tamed himself before he managed to break anything else. Not that the apartment mattered - he would do his shady thing in order to get more money and replaced the broken furniture or pay for damage inflicted on the institution’s property. 

It all came down to him not wanting to amuse Sanji by expressing his frustration in loud violence that would definitely not escape his ears.

Maybe he should go to the gym that served the campus and which he frequented whenever he could and let it all out through exercise. If only they had allowed him to get a punching bag installed in his room, Zoro would’ve released adrenaline in the comfort of his own chamber - but the request had sounded fishy and it had been denied in the name of a non-violent environment or some shit, which was not to say students lived by the same standards. An item of weaponry should be easier to conceal or move around when needed than a huge punching bag that had to be attached to the ceiling.

Zoro sat on the floor and turned to meditation instead so he could relax his muscles and, in the same manner, relax his mind. He couldn’t allow anger to control him; he had to be its master. 

Time passed without him knowing exactly how much had passed before he sensed the apartment to be quiet - the cook had to be in his room, probably getting some work done before weekend commenced. _The cook!_

Perhaps it was a rebound effect that Zoro’s liver extra smart and reminded his brain that the cook had some booze in his cupboards and even inside so obvious a place as the refrigerator. No, it wasn’t actual booze, it was alcohol meant for cooking. Alright - it was better than having a dry mouth and a bored liver. 

Zoro walked into the kitchen and didn’t bother being silent while searching the cabinets.

Sanji liked to call his friend’s favourite beers 'piss water’. Now the things he cooked with _were_ piss water! Zoro wondered if Sanji would even realize it if he refilled the white wine bottle after emptying it with his own piss. Now for the record, that’s not something Zoro would do, but the amusing idea illustrated quite well what he thought of Sanji’s wine whose name he couldn’t even read.

“Your what?” Zoro asked when he heard his friend interrogated him like he was performing a violation. 'Sayuhviggnon’ said the label. Zoro answered Sanji with a shrug and drank the remainder of the liquid without averting his eyes from the cook’s. It was awful stuff.

Just then, Zoro said the worst thing he possibly could. Something he didn’t feel. Something he didn’t want to see happen.

“Then leave.”

This whole shit was the cook’s fault. If he wasn’t pleased with the outcome of his sacrilege, he just had to leave. Maybe one of their friends would be happy to switch rooms with him. Usopp might be a suiting mate.

  
  
  


Zoro had the audacity to take the bottle of wine back and empty it completely. Ice-cold and serious was his reply to Sanji’s exasperated mumbling. The cook was just told to leave by his roommate and it felt like the punch to the face he had been expecting all day long.

His mind was reeling. Leave? Where to? With what money? Sanji definitely could not afford to move out right now, even if he wanted to. He did not. He actually liked their little apartment. Why, if Zoro wanted to be away from Sanji, _he_ should be the one leaving! But even then, Sanji would not be able to pay rent for this apartment on his own, that’s why he and Zoro roomed together in the first place.

Was he really that hated by Zoro? Sure, they fought a lot, they also had plenty of normal interactions, contrary to popular belief, and up until now the cook really thought they had some kind of comradeship going on at least.

Or was his meddling with the Marimo’s alcohol consume such a grave mistake, a cardinal sin that destroyed everything? What the fuck then was he to make of Zoro’s vengeful acts? The swordsman had even lost all respect for his kitchen, if he ever had any.

Sanji’s eyes flicked to the empty bottle of his cooking wine and suddenly all his rage took hold of his temperament.

“You miserable fucker!”

With a swift kick the blond suddenly lashed out at Zoro, who crashed into the counter, knocking down the bottle that splintered at its violent contact with the floor. Sanji didn’t care, he let his anger guide his actions.

Zoro quickly retaliated but Sanji did not hold back anymore. He kept up his fast footwork, literally kicking Zoro out of the kitchen and into the living room. Zoro landed some punches on him, when he followed for another attack.

One particular hard blow knocked Sanji into a shelf, he heard something crash but his vision was blurry for a second or two, the room spinning around him. The cook could taste blood in his mouth, something he did not have to have a distinguished palate for to recognize. It was also one of the earliest tastes he remembered from his childhood. So maybe he had aquired a taste for it afterall.

Pulling himself back up straight on the hardwood of the shelf-surface, Sanji shook his head in an attempt to shake the dizziness off, it helped only marginally.

Luckily, the moss-head’s green hair was a hard target to miss, even with fuzzy vision colour was easy to process for his addled brain.

Sanji launched into Zoro, pushing him against the living room furniture. He received a punch to the gut, which was thankfully protected by his abs, the firm muscles clenched in anticipation of another kick, and he kneed Zoro over the backrest of the couch.

Zoro fisted his shirt in reflex and dragged the cook right along, making him land hard on the swordsman.

Hair tousled wild, cheeks flushed with anger and the heat of the fight, Sanji leaned over Zoro, fists braced against his pecs from when he tried to break the fall. This close to Zoro’s face his eyes automatically sought out the scar running over his left eye.

A cruel, constant reminder of his guilt that he did not want to feel right now. A reminder that Zoro at least was as much a meddler as he was. A reminder that all this started just because Sanji was worried about Zoro’s health. Again.

It stung. Sanji was painfully aware that he had a pathetic need to be…needed, wanted even. And Zoro just outright told him to get out of his fucking life.

But Sanji was stubborn and defiant, if nothing else at least. He pushed off Zoro’s torso and leaned back, sitting up on his haunches bracketing Zoro’s hips. With a shake of his head his unruly hair fell back into place, hiding the right part of his face again.

With one blue eye he glared down at Zoro and a devilish, blood-smeared grin that held no humour formed on his lips.

“Tough luck, bastard, you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

  
  


  
Later, Zoro would come to regret his words, regardless of the outcome settled by his mate. He didn’t wish to see Sanji go out the door and never come back, let alone getting forever rid of him.

Sanji was… Well, he was what he was. A stick-in-the-mud, a pain-in-the-neck, an overqualified cook and, first and foremost, a very special friend. Zoro’s dynamic with each one of his friends was unique and Sanji was no exception to the rule: the cook was the one he fought with the most but also the one who understood him the most; even surpassing Luffy, for Luffy understood his heart but Sanji went so far as to be synchronised with Zoro. Their quarrels were far from meaning hate, as hate will either lead to apathy or to a desire for annihilation.

As it was, Zoro did not mean to wreck Sanji, nor was he inclined to embrace apathy. 

Indeed, the cook did possess many qualities which were not overlooked: he was loyal, he was respectful and he even managed to make bickering fun. Not to speak of how the pair of them could get along as house companions: Sanji would not tell Zoro what to do when he was troubled; Zoro would not question Sanji when he went mysteriously gloomy.

However, it was not a mild, pleasant bickering when Sanji shoved Zoro against the counter. There was no bleeding but there would be bruising and though his reaction didn’t show it, the swordsman did feel the hit - the need to come up with a quick counter-attack was bigger than allowing his muscles time to grieve.

Legs and feet against arms and hands, the two of them moved from the kitchen to the living room in a fight that seemed perfectly choreographed, like in a film, for after the opening shot fate would have it that they would block each other’s attack. 

The fight was not doomed to last forever, though, for Zoro managed to punch Sanji and, without having planned so, avenge his own hit on the counter with a crash against a shelf. It served the bastard right and Zoro didn’t feel sorry for whatever knickknacks they had ornamenting it being turned to smithereens (all of them bought and brought home by Sanji).

He also didn’t care when more things got broken all around the room and once again destiny proved it impossible for Zoro to turn to apathy as his back met with the sofa and Sanji sat on him in an attempt to immobilize his opponent.

Like a golden wolf the cook was, his mouth all fangs red with blood and his eyes shining with a want for more… but not for his own. In that moment, it didn’t seem all that impossible that Sanji would attack with bare teeth.

In his bloodlust, the blond’s left eye searched the swordsman’s face for something, perhaps a clue as to what his friend was thinking so as to anticipate his next blow. There could be no way he was looking for _fear_. Not in Zoro.

The cook’s words sounded like venom and yet they tasted like his most delicate dessert - he was going nowhere. He wouldn’t go out the door. _Sanji would not abandon Zoro._

The poor devil couldn’t help feeling relieved. 

Despite the fact his head was reeling, Zoro knew he would have never said such terrible and untrue words were it not for the lack of alcohol in his blood. How was he expected to work in a proper fashion when his organism was not feeling its normal self? No living person can function properly when they’re deprived of water or nutrients, or, in this case, of alcohol.

And _how_ could he feel normal when he had Sanji topping him? This kind of accident was starting to occur rather often, was it not?

Before he could think about it - an idea which would surely be met with a negative answer - Zoro’s left hand came in contact with Sanji’s hip. 

It was the gentlest touch possible, so soft it didn’t even qualify as a proper grab; his hand was just hovering, energy pulsating between his exposed skin and Sanji’s concealed flesh. 

A pinkish hue came to Zoro’s cheeks at the same time a dark aura descended on him and touched his eyes like a shadow. He couldn’t believe what he had just done. He would not have Sanji say anything about it.

His head now completely out of salvation, Zoro pushed Sanji away for the very last time and stomped to his room, his back against the wall now wailing as the ache started kicking in while the adrenaline was making its way out of the man’s system.

How could that have happened? How could he possibly have let his body do as it pleased without a moment’s thought, without permission? For the first time in a very long while, perhaps in forever, Zoro felt out of tune with himself. And Sanji was the sole reason for so otherworldly a phenomenon.

(…)

Zoro believed daybreak to be a bringer of answers and understanding but when Saturday dawned he was just as _lost_ as he had felt when his head had hit the pillow. 

He didn’t feel like seeing the cook - it had nothing to do with fear, though, but with the prospect of yet another fight and whatever weird incidents might happen, as there was no chance Sanji’s spirits had improved when the living room was an utter mess. ‘Congratulations, you fucking marimo. How are we supposed to get this shit fixed now with no fucking money?’

Five minutes passed. Seven, ten, twelve. Zoro knew what to do - without even acknowledging his mate’s presence anywhere in the apartment, he got dressed, pulled on his boots and wallet, keys and phone combination and banged the door on his way out.

Zoro would not leave until the sky was ink-black.

  
  


  
For a moment so short that Sanji was sure he had to have imagined it, he had felt a gentle, almost ghostly touch on his hip – the next second Zoro had shoved him off himself and the couch with a dark glare and the cook landed on the living room floor unable to process the electrifying contact.

Zoro did not waste any time to flee the room and leave his roommate abandoned in the mess they had created. Sanji stayed seated on the carpet for a few more minutes, carding his hands through his hair, grabbing a fistful of it in an old habit he was barely aware of when stressed.

When he had calmed down a bit he stood up and walked to the bathroom to rinse the blood out of his mouth. Sanji spat the red-tinged water into the sink and ran his tongue along his teeth, probing for any loose tooth but there was no damage to his dentals, luckily.

His cheekbone, though, still hurt like a bitch and would probably bruise, like a few other places on his body where Zoro’s punches had landed.

Leaving the bathroom, he was instantly confronted with the chaos of their fight again. The cook did not want to have to clean up the wreck but he knew if he would just leave it be he would just get pissed off later. And he couldn’t deny that he was an active participant in creating it.

From the kitchen he grabbed the broom and dustpan and started to sweep up the shards of the wine bottle, careful not to cut himself. Sanji then moved to the living room, picking up things that had fallen down, inspecting if they had survived the wrecking.

Unfortunately but predictably not a lot of the deco they had crashed into had stayed intact, so the blond discarded what now constituted as trash into the bin.

Sanji picked up a picture frame with a photograph of them and the rest of the clique behind the cracked glass. He looked at Zoro’s broadly smiling face and felt a twinge between his ribs. Pulling the picture out of the broken frame, he angrily slapped it face down on the shelf, where it used to stand.

Swiftly, Sanji had tidied up the living room to the best of his ability. The shelf he had crashed into was wobblier than before and the wood was chipped in two places, thankfully the kitchen counter remained undamaged after he had kicked Zoro’s bulk into it.

The cook was done with this shit. He grabbed a pack of ice from the freezer to cool his face, if a little late, and retreated back to his room. Lying down onto his bed, Sanji let the tension drain from his body and only concentrated on the comfortable cooling of his heated skin.

With the evening changing to night, Sanji did not care that he had let dinner slide for once. It wasn’t as if he had any appetite left and he was sure Zoro would not have come out of his room to have a ‘pleasant’ meal with him, he scoffed at the mere idea of it.

Drifting off to sleep at one point, Sanji had yet another unrestful night.

[…]

In the early morning hours of Saturday, Sanji had already been lying awake after some tossing around, drifting in and out of a light sleep, when he heard the front door getting slammed shut. Zoro had apparently left.

An icy feeling settled in his guts and he forced himself not to rush to his roommate’s chamber and check if his closet was empty to see if he had run off for good. Sanji’s rational side argued that Zoro probably just wanted some distance. Like himself, he could not affort to move out right away.

Pressing his face into his pillow, Sanji tried to block out every dumb thought and uncomfortable feeling. He wanted to get back to sleep but he was wide awake now and the rumbling of his stomach finally made him get up.

Still dressed in the outfit he wore yesterday, having fallen asleep in it, he quickly changed clothes after cleaning himself up in the bathroom.

Down to his last pack, he put his cigarettes into the back pocket of his jeans, grabbed the smoke that had dried over night and lit it up. It tasted like shit and made him think of Zoro as he was standing half-naked and dripping wet in his kitchen. An uncomfortable heat spread through his body, probably his repressed anger, though it did feel oddly familiar to something that had nothing to do with rage…

Sanji wanted nothing more than to spit out the cigarette but he suffered through it as he needed the nicotine.

After a quick and light but nutritious breakfast, he found himself restless and unsure how to use his free time. Not that there wasn’t always something to do for his university courses but Sanji was pretty sure he would not be able to concentrate on that right now. He also did not feel like meeting up with friends, most of those were probably not available anyways.

The empty apartment felt oddly smothering, like he was a caged-in animal. Needing some fresh air he decided to go for a run and changed into his tracksuit and running shoes, quickly leaving the house.

When he returned it was a little past lunch-time. Exhausted and drenched in sweat from his extended workout, Sanji took his second shower of the day and started on a one-person meal right afterwards.

While eating, his eyes kept glancing to the clock on the wall every couple of minutes. It was early afternoon and Zoro still hadn’t returned. Sanji was angry at himself that he kept thinking about the shitty mosshead, it had cost him way too many cigarettes already and he should be able to enjoy his free time without the bastard around.

Still, Zoro’s sense of direction was far from being the best and Sanji couldn’t help but wonder if the idiot would be able to find his way back from fuck-knows-where he had left to at dawn.

The cook forced his thoughts away from the Marimo and busied himself with some housework.

By late afternoon Sanji had smoked his last cigarette and was now officially out of smokes to burn through. He had no money to buy new ones and the fact itself stressed him out so much that he kept worrying his lower lip with his teeth.

He ended up cuddled up on the couch, pillow in hand that he nervously fiddled with, watching some random bullshit on TV to keep his mind distracted. The programme was too boring though and he dozed off eventually.

When he heard the front door getting unlocked Sanji woke with a start and a pounding heart. There was only one other person with a key to their apartment. Zoro!

Zoro was back home.

 


	5. Chapter 5

There were many things Zoro could’ve said when he approached Sanji after unlocking the door with a single twist and limp to the living room, which had that air such a space does when its occupant is too upset to give a fuck.

‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing’ ‘Don’t you dare worry, I can’t take it’ 'What the hell are you looking at?’ 'Don’t you dare pity me, I’ll still fuck you up’ or even ’ **You** look like shit’

Rather than saying anything that could pass as a sorry excuse or a lame threat, Zoro went with a monossylabic and noncomittal “Hey” and sat on the couch, not minding his friend’s pillow.

He was smeared in blood, his tan skin made a shade or two darker by the fluid that covered it like a coat of polish. He showed no sign of having acquired new scars for display but his lip was busted, his nose crooked and his arms bruised. It was a hideous yet fascinating palette  that which coloured the canvas of his body.

Yet, to Zoro’s eyes, Sanji was the one who looked like shit because of his messy hair and gooey-looking eyes, which were now made bigger than usual as either surprise or shock took over him. Or whatever else.

Despite his casual greeting to a completely out of normal situation, Zoro didn’t go so far as to grab the remote and complain about the crap the cook was watching (one of those stupid reality shows where they coop up stupid people inside a stupid house). He couldn’t pretend any of this was normal.

Looking back on his day in the city, he wondered how had things gotten so wrong for him. The swordsman knew fully well no person could win every time and there was some good in it, for it was a constant reminder that no one is ever good enough. There’s always room for improvement, for getting stronger. 

But how had things turned out _so_ wrong? This was no loss at a practice duel, another reminder to practice harder and becoming an evolved form of himself - he had fucked up for good and for all he knew he might have sealed his fate.

Zoro spoke naught of how he had managed to get this new look of his, or rather of how ‘they’ had managed to get it for him. Sanji had no business knowing of his business, though his friend knew very well of Zoro’s epithet of _**Pirate Hunter**_. Such a name couldn’t possibly fit a morally and legally unquestionable trade.

Well then? Sanji’s scolding was taking too long to come. Let the insufferable cook beat him twice that day with his nagging and his scorn so Zoro could go to bed.

  
  
  


At the sight that greeted him, Sanji drew in a sharp breath and held it until Zoro just casually flopped down on the couch beside him after slowly limping towards him from the door. Sanji stared at his blood-smeared body with wide eyes. He wanted to say something, yell at Zoro for being so reckless, demand to know who had managed to do this to him, but his words died in his throat that felt awfully tight, plugged with a big lump of… fear? Worry? Guilt?

Seeing the Marimo hurt was not a surprise per se. The cook did not exactly know what his roommate was up to when he sometimes vanished somewhere just to come back with a souvenir of bruises and scrapes, he did have some more than vague ideas though, none of them pleasant. But he also knew that it was not his business and he would not interfere with whatever Zoro the so-called “Pirate Hunter” was doing.

Sanji had had a feeling that Zoro was on his way to danger, when he heard him leave that morning. Seeking out trouble was some kind of hobby of the swordsman it seemed. Usually, though, he returned with a cocky grin, brimming with confidence and rarely even close to hurt as he was now.

This time Zoro looked defeated, in body and spirit. It unnerved Sanji greatly. His friend still looked tense as if he was waiting for something, probably his reaction. The blond realized that he had not even responded to that utterly ridiculously normal greeting yet, much less anything else.

Biting his lip again, Sanji let his eyes quickly roam over Zoro’s figure, mapping out and categorizing the injuries he could see. There was so much blood! Most of it seemed to have streamed out of Zoro’s nose though, which looked like it might be broken.

Sanji suddenly got up from the couch. “Get out of that,” he ordered swiftly and gestured to Zoro’s blood-soaked jacket and shirt. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

His feet carried him to the bathroom in a couple fast paces. In the mirror-cabinet he looked for the antiseptic, gauze and bandages, then he grabbed a small towel and a washcloth and filled the washbowl that he normally used for handwashing his more sensitive textiles with steaming hot water.

Carrying the medical supplies over to the living room, he put it all down on the small coffee table, pushing aside anything that was in the way. A little more forcefully than necessary Sanji pressed the off-button on the TV remote to shut off that annoying background noise.

Laying out the dressing material for easy access, he glanced at the baffled looking Marimo. “Didn’t I tell you to undress? We need to clean your wounds.”

The cook almost laughed at the confused and suspicious look on his friend’s face who had probably expected some kind of scolding and yelling from him. But Sanji was in no fighting mood, not the ones they’d had the last couple of days.

Zoro finally did as he was told but kept a watchful gaze fixed on the cook, observing his every move like a tiger. Sanji sighed and rolled his eyes at his apparent distrust. He rolled up his sleeves, grabbed the washcloth and wet it in the hot water, wringing out the excess liquid.

On the couch Sanji scooted a bit closer to Zoro for better reach. His left hand carefully cupped Zoro’s right cheek and gently forced him to move his face more towards him. When he wanted to wipe away the blood on his friend’s face, Zoro grabbed his right hand in a firm grasp, stopping him mid-motion.

“I’ll be careful,” he promised and his eyes softened a bit. Zoro probably was in considerable pain. He still wasn’t sure if his nose was actually broken, it was hard to tell with that swelling. But the amount of blood did not promise much hope.

Very tenderly he dabbed the washcloth over Zoro’s lips and chin, carefully brushing his nostrils with the fabric but that was already enough to make him flinch away in reflex and growl at the cook.

Sanji tried his best to stay concentrated, which was a little difficult when he constantly felt Zoro’s piercing eyes on him while in such close proximity to his face. He didn’t dare to do anything about his nose, it was best to leave it be. Well, actually, it would be best to have a doctor look at it, but seeing as Zoro was not a fan of hospitals, Sanji might need to text Chopper later.

For the time being he moved on to Zoro’s arms and kept cleaning the cloth inbetween clearing away the blood on his skin, relieved that the washing revealed the cuts and scrapes to be more shallow than expected.

Their silence felt tense and Sanji was aware of the fact that this was a task that Zoro could very well do on his own. Suddenly his washing of his friend’s wounds felt awfully intimate and he could not keep his cheeks from turning light pink.

He tried to ignore the feeling that this situation was all ultimately his fault, decidedly not thinking how it was probably his guilt that made him more amicable to the Marimo. Instead he told himself that Zoro was probably aching all over and it was both easier and quicker for Sanji to help him instead. He was also definitely more thorough, too, knowing the idiot he hadn’t even thought about disinfecting his wounds.

Sanji left the rag in the blood-muddied water when he was finished cleaning the man up, then he dabbed away the leftover moisture on the tan skin with the towel, once again careful not to irritate the wounds, a little on the ironic side, considering that his next task was to put antiseptic right onto the open skin, which would burn like a bitch.

The only warning Zoro got was that the cook held up the little bottle of disinfectant in front of his face before he started spraying it on his body and dressing up the wounds. Zoro didn’t even hiss but Sanji saw the muscles in his jaw twitch under the pressure of how tight it was clenched in discomfort. Fucking idiot.

All bandaged up, with that swollen nose and the dark bruises along his arms and torso he looked almost more beaten and miserable than before. His shoulders were hunched and his posture gave off the vibe of a kicked puppy. Kicked. It was almost as if his brain wanted to torture Sanji with his guilt-tripping.

He dropped his head into his hands. God, what a time to be out of fucking cigarettes, why did he literally burn through them so fast today? Urgh, because the shitty Marimo had gotten into his fucking head. He looked up again to glare at Zoro.

“Oh for fuck’s sake….” Sanji mumbled and stood up, ignoring his friend’s confused expression.

“Wait.” the blond growled pointing to where the other was still sitting and grinned to himself when Zoro just automatically leaned back on the couch. Truly, like a loyal dog, maybe that’s the key to a better relationship with the mosshead.

He stomped off to his room, looking for his keys for a moment, and then unlocked and opened his nightstand, grabbing one of the large bottles he had kept hidden there these past days. The source of all his recent troubles.

Grinding his teeth together, Sanji was hesitant for a moment. The cook really didn’t want to give in, after all he had been through and all the shit that Zoro had given him for a simple gesture of worry. But he had seen where this stubbornness of his had led to. With his roommate being an equally hardheaded fool….well, how does the saying go? The wiser head gives in.

With the bottle in hand Sanji returned to the living room, where Zoro was carefully poking at the gauze on his abs.

“Don’t touch that.” Zoro’s head immediately snapped up to look at him. Sanji could pinpoint the very moment when his eyes fell on the bottle in his hands, his expression turning wary but otherwise unreadable.

He took another two steps forward, standing right in front of his roommate. He held his gaze while he opened the bottle, then, drinking right from the neck of it, Sanji tilted his head back, eyes closed, and took some large gulps, feeling the burn of the hard liquor trickle down his throat. It was the next best thing to a cigarette.

He had to grant Zoro this: this was definitely the good shit. The liquid immediately settled in his guts and set everything it touched aflame. With the speed with which he chugged it down, Sanji was surprised he didn’t cough up half of it again and glad of it ‘cause that would have been embarrassing.

When he finally separated his lips from the bottle with a plop he had downed a good thirt of it. Zoro’s deathglare made way for surprise as Sanji thrust the bottle into the swordsman’s hand, wiping his mouth with the back of his left hand.

He could read the question in those stupidly dark eyes and the intensity of that stare made the cook really uncomfortable. Maybe it was just the alcohol rushing to his head, he was a light-weight after all and this shit always took hold of him so fast, not that he’d ever admit it out loud, but it was an open secret to everyone he knew.

“Because you are a shitty self-destructive fucking Masochist and no matter how much I try to save you from yourself you find a way to get fucked up, so fuck you!” He answered the unspoken question, then feeling selfconscious in his stupid moment of angry honesty he mumbled “I’ll get you some ice for that…” gesturing to Zoro’s face, and walked over to the kitchen to get an ice-pack from the freezer.

The blood was rushing through his body, taking the alcohol through his system on a fast lane.

  
  
  


Zoro waited and waited for a word of insult, of defiance, of wisdom. He waited for some bullshit morals to be thrown at him, for the cook was always right in his infinite wisdom and he was just a poor devil, a lost soul. Well, he wasn’t - and now, of all times, he certainly didn’t deserve being given a sermon about his foolishness and his recklessness. Zoro didn’t need Sanji to absolve his sins.

Hours seemed to pass where the only noises that could be heard were Sanji’s gasps and the drip-drip of Zoro’s blood, intercalated as if in a wordless conversation where Sanji asked all the questions while Zoro stood irresolute in his blunt answers.

Sanji’s eyes analyzed the swordsman as if he were a scientist rather than a cook - and there is some science to the culinary arts - and Zoro didn’t know whether he should feel like a produce stand at the marketplace or a lab rat.

When his mate did speak, Zoro’s thoughts remained clouded in doubt, just like his flesh was clouded in an impressive array of wounds, a collection of cases for the cook to put his clinical eye on.

Did he just tell him to ‘get out’ but ‘stay there’? How was Zoro supposed to do both? The wretched bastard was polluted with questions as he was and therefore had no capacity left to riddle Sanji’s orders.

The cook came back, his arms full of things that smelled like the interior of a clinic and stupidly Zoro remembered the last time he had seen a dentist, though his teeth seemed both beyond need of immediate medical assistance and of Sanji’s capabilities.

Sanji had been with him that day. At first, Zoro had thought the cook just wanted to gloat on his pain, for Zoro’s visit to so hellish a place was by no means a routine check. Later, and despite some lame-ass insults about him being “sissy”, Zoro had understood his friend had been there to keep him company. For _his_ sake.

Now, his friend was insisting on having him undressed. Hmph. As if he needed any of that!

But knowing fully the kind of mess he was in his current state, he still removed his upper clothes (which would either meet their own surgical needle or the trash bin) and kept a watching eye on Sanji. 

It wasn’t like medical procedures scared the man but they weren’t pleasant. Nor did they create a type of pain that might be _enjoyable._ At any rate, Zoro would’ve fancied the situation better if he had some alcohol to burn inside of him just like this other alcohol was threatening to burn on his gruesomely coloured skin.

The cook’s first great gesture, however, did scare him. Sanji’s hand burned on his cheek like alcohol itself, pure and violent, though it became a warm ember soon enough. This _was_ the kind of pain Zoro found pleasurable.

When Sanji assured the swordsman he would be careful, he received his silent permission and the ritual commenced. 

Not once did Zoro so much as utter some profanity, let alone yell, but he couldn’t help responding to Sanji’s tools with twitches, bites on the lips among other small signals of distress. And never, for once, did he stop eyeing Sanji with eyes as open as he could.

It was a spiritual cleansing as much as it was a physical and medical one.

 The washcloth and the gauze felt oddly harsh compared to Sanji’s velvety touch. As the cook washed away the blood, he let an entire tide of other sensations come ashore. They washed over Zoro like that tide.

This was, arguably, the closest the two friends had ever been to and with each other. The thought must have crossed Sanji’s mind, for a peachy shade tinted his cheeks and while his eyes looked down to the different areas that required his touch with attention, they twitched as though he had to look away. Or so they appeared to do before Zoro’s wide eyes.

 Sanji looked so pretty.

Well, of course _Sanji was pretty_ \- the kind of ‘Ken doll pretty’ or the kind of ‘fairytale illustration on a children’s book pretty’. It hadn’t been without surprise that, years ago, Sanji had been voted the prettiest boy in school (by popular vote of course).

But now he was aesthetically pleasing in a different way, or maybe Zoro just didn’t have it in him to **place a crown** upon the cook’s golden brow. He just… looked good that way.

Zoro couldn’t help to tilt his head forward for just a bit, nearing Sanji’s face, for no reason other than to look at him closely, for this was a rare occasion, when the shitty cook became flushed for him.

In that moment, Zoro realized something - he _didn’t_ have to put a crown on Sanji’s head after all. Though he still argued that it was not Sanji’s place to clean him of his sins, Sanji might be the one to **bring him salvation**.

As for the remainder of the procedure, Zoro acted as stoic as he could throughout it all and patiently waited for Sanji to return a second time with whatever medicine he had. The _**Pirate Hunter**_ almost felt like smiling when he saw it was _good medicine_ that which the cook brought him.

New questions swarmed all around Zoro’s brain, nicking like needles.

That bottle was his and he would bet his life on it. When it came to his booze, Zoro knew it almost as well as he knew his own hands. It wasn’t just another specimen of the same label - it was the very same bottle he had once stored in his drinks cabinet, along with some others.

How was it that the cook now had it in his hands? He hadn’t thrown it away after all… Maybe his other bottles were still safe and he had given innocent hostages for fatal casualties.

Sanji was drinking right out of the bottle and there was something amusing in that scene: Sanji didn’t drink. Socially, yes, maybe, but never anything less than fancy. Certainly never an obscure native label and decidedly not by the bottle.

Zoro felt he should be mad at the cook when the bottle was given to him like that. It felt like an act of _mercy_ , the saviour’s ultimate pity on the poor devil. He had to be mad at Sanji! All this fucking mess and he’d kept the bottles all along!

But he couldn’t do it. Not when he was too tired and felt half-dead, Sanji being the only thing that **made him cling to life**. He even admitted himself as Zoro’s saviour, the skinny _pretty_ fucker!

Before Sanji knew it, Zoro was in the kitchen behind him, still biting on his lips and twitching himself in pain. 

There was something that had to be said and couldn’t wait any longer. The words were rude, yet his tone was peaceful - thankful. This might be the closest to gratitude Sanji would get from him.

“Fuck you”

  
  


  
Sanji startled when he suddenly felt Zoro’s presence behind him and almost dropped the ice-pack in surprise.

The soft insult that was breathed to him carried so much meaning, so much emotion, that the cook had to turn around to make sure it was truly his mate standing behind him.

He started to open his mouth to reply but shut it closed when his brain did not provide him with anything to say in answer.

Zoro stood pretty close to him, he did not seem to be aware of the concept of a personal bubble, probably thanks to Luffy’s influence. Usopp and Chopper were also really tactile people, not to mention Franky. Sanji did not dislike it, it reminded him of the Baratie and it gave him a feeling of ‘home’.

But with Zoro it was a bit different. While they were both used to Luffy’s and Usopp’s clinging, their arms hanging around their shoulders, friendly and strong claps on the back from Franky and Chopper outright cuddling up to his big friends, their body contact with each other mostly happened through fights.

Somehow the distance between them seemed to have been reduced a little. Metaphorically speaking as well as physically, currently.

The white bandages on Zoro’s body stood in stark contrast to his dark skin and the even darker bruises. It felt like they truly did not belong there, like some foreign object disturbing a beautiful scenery. His perfectly chiselled abs sank and rose under Zoro’s steady breath, sometimes twitching with the shudder of a twinge of pain.

A spell of dizziness overcame the cook and it suddenly felt as if Zoro was not standing close enough, even though he could’ve touched him without much effort, not even having to fully stretch out his arms to reach. He dared not. His senses were all messed up, his mind filled with strange impulses he did not follow through. Was he drunk already, that fast? He had to be.

The slow drip of condensation water falling to the floor from the ice-pack in his hands drew him back into the moment. A half-naked Marimo in his kitchen, water on his floor, a strong sense of deja-vú and a memory of longing.

When he lifted his eyes to Zoro’s he saw something like gratitude and fondness in the beauty of their darkness. It made something in Sanji’s body drop heavily to his stomach. He could not bear it, undeserving as he was of gratitude when he was the one that drove his friend to the madness that got him hurt like this.

He drew his eyes away from Zoro’s gaze and that old scar over his eye and brought it back to his broken nose. Clearing his throat, Sanji grabbed a fresh dish towel from the cupboard, wrapped the wet ice-pack into it and put it into Zoro’s hands. “You should cool it.”

Glad to have found his voice again, he decided he should just use it, rambling always helped to calm his nerves. “And let Chopper know ASAP. He should have a look at it.”

Yes, that was good, not as good as cigarettes but better than the suffocating silence and tension. Cooking helped, too. He should cook something, even though it was way past dinner time and generally pretty late already. His eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. Whatever, he wanted to cook.

“Are you hungry?” Zoro just shrugged in answer. He probably was but right now he looked more tired and exhausted than anything. The Marimo assumably just wanted to down the rest of the bottle and get some sleep. Some nutritions would benefit his body’s healing process though.

So it was decided. He had to eat. Cook’s order.

“I’ll make something quick.” True to his words, Sanji threw together a meal in record time, just something healthy, mostly vegetables and some rice, a plain fruit salad as dessert for vitamines. Zoro sat at the counter while waiting, busy cooling his swollen nose.

The cook ignored the pained grunts as best as he could. He presented his friend with his food, then busied himself again with cleaning up the tools he had used.

“Don’t think I’m letting you off the hook just like that. You still owe me for my cigarettes.”

To his own ears he sounded almost childish in his pouting and remaining stubbornness but he found some comfort in his bickering as it was something he was used to, something that connected him to what constituted as normalcy between Zoro and him.

“I am out of cigarettes and money and you will have to suffer through my cranky-ass moods ‘cause I don’t know what I will do without those shitty sticks and you WILL deserve everything coming your way! Prepare for some asskicking.” He huffed in annoyance at just the thought of it.

“And I will make you pay back every single one of those packs!”

  
  
  


Zoro would not forget nor forgive his friend’s little hide-and-seek game with his booze and Sanji was bound to know it. It was a forced truce that steadied the injured swordsman’s anger and tamed his spirit. Reckless as he was and regardless of how little importance he normally gave to his wounds, Zoro knew fully well he was in no state to start another battle for the great war of unhealthy vices.

Nor was Sanji. 

Under the cook’s calm demeanor Zoro could sense lay a storm, pretty much like their friend Nami was capable of delivering forecasts more correctly than the weather channel was. Zoro could sense Sanji’s turbulent mind as much as she could sense the weather - through this sensing Nami was capable of reading and interpreting climate, but Sanji was harder an atmosphere to read.

They couldn’t fight - not now, not yet. What honour, what humanity would it be in making war with a distressed rival? 

Zoro couldn’t steal Sanji’s honour by making him fight at any other level than his best. Of course, and though admitting it felt painful as the pounding and the healing themselves, he was hardly near his personal best.

Taking the ice in his hands, Zoro put it to his nose and experienced yet another acute sensation both painful and purifying. Sanji was bossing him to call Chopper. “I don’t need Chopper, I’m fine”

Sanji didn’t insist, either moved by his own sense of honour and morals which told him not to upset an injured man or simply because he knew it was pointless.

The world had taken a sudden, violent shake that night and there was no possibility of going back to the status quo. That didn’t stop Sanji from trying, though, as he offered to cook something despite the long hours like this was a casual ‘can’t sleep’ encounter.

Zoro once again showed proof of how strong his mind was as he collected himself and waited. His eyes were on Sanji but it was not the same as a moment ago.

He enjoyed watching the cook at work. Sanji’s gestures would go from frantic to slo-mo in a couple of seconds as he conducted his culinary orchestra. His hands were swift, his technique precise. 

Swords and knives may be different instruments but they’re still part of the same class of weaponry: knowing blades very well, Zoro knew there was more to Sanji’s skills than what any Culinary Studies teacher could teach. It couldn’t be taught.

Any other person, the swordsman included, would have considered something as efficient and glamour-free as a fried egg a quick snack but not Sanji. 

Zoro ate right where he stood without bothering to sit at the table.

And then Sanji blew it.

He had the nerve to say Zoro _still owed him_ like what could very well be a broken nose was not enough compensation for his fucking tobacco. Like hs spilled blood was not enough.

After all that worry and caring, the bastard still had his head firmly stuck between his buttocks! Zoro felt he should just walk to his fucking room, get the thing he had bought with his last pennies and get Sanji’s head out of his ass so he could shove the bloody shit inside!

But it was _good_ that Sanji was revealing his true colours, too: clearly the shitfuck prized his cigarettes over Zoro! Sanji was so self-centred and egotistical his worrying, Zoro figured, had to be part of some elaborated theatrics. And he had believed the bastard had some fucking feelings. He had believed….!

No wonder Sanji was being Heaven on Earth - he was being himself.

Casting the plate and the fork aside, Zoro flexed his legs and clenched his fists. ‘Asskicking’, he said? “Bring it!”

Before he could do anything, though, Zoro felt his shoulder screaming in agony and grabbed it in response. He couldn’t fight - _not now, not yet_.

“Fine” he replied to Sanji’s silence. “You want your fucking cigarettes? I’ll give you your fucking cigarettes!” After delivering this threat, Zoro dragged his limping ass to his room.

  
  


  
Sanji had let his smart mouth run off with whatever stupid bullshit was leaving his lips and had apparently relit the spark of anger in Zoro so much that he wanted to fight him really badly right that moment.

The cook could not even fully tense up before Zoro’s body screamed at himself in pain and the outraged swordsman had to cage in his ire.

Sanji was frozen to the spot, everything happened so fast. He must have said something truly abhorrent for Zoro to go from 0 to 100 like that. Yet he had only demanded the price of destruction be repaid to him, spiced up with their usual insults, hadn’t he?

Zoro’s sudden agreement wasn’t as much a promise as it was a threat spat into Sanji’s face with all his venom. His injured friend then limped back to his room, leaving him alone in the kitchen.

What the fuck was that all about now?

Staring at the leftover food on the counter in puzzlement, Sanji finally pulled himself out of his dumbfounded stupor. He put away the food, safely storing it in the fridge for Zoro to finish another time.

When he was done with kitchen clean-up as well as clearing away the medical supplies from the coffee table, he changed into his pajamas and got ready for bed in the bathroom. While brushing his teeth, Sanji’s thoughts kept going back to Zoro and how much in pain he must have been if he was breaking down that easily and had to fucking limp through the apartment. But the fucker said he was ‘fine’ and didn’t have to see Chopper, probably just didn’t want to worry their little friend.

That Sanji was also really worried did not seem to have registered with Zoro or he hadn’t cared about that. Great, really great. The bastard just went off to get his face smashed in by whatever kind of shitty goons and didn’t even think about what it meant to his roommate having to play his goddamn nurse.

What did it mean to him?

Sanji rinsed his mouth. He did not want to follow that train of throughts to wherever it would lead, probably would end up a trainwreck after derailing anyways.

The blond was finished with his evening routine but was rummaging through the drawers in their cabinet under the sink. He was sure that they still had some of the strong painkillers left. The last time Zoro was in such intense pain he took some of the painkillers prescribed to him by the doctor but only to get through the worst, then he went back to enduring.

Sanji swore that the Marimo was some kind of masochist. Why else would anyone actively seek out trouble all the damn time. The cook did understand the thrill of a good fight, the satisfaction of a great workout but what Zoro was doing, in his stupid, secretive, lone-wolf attitude, was going a bit beyond that. But there was nothing he could do about it.

His nimble fingers finally found the pills at the back of the second drawer. Sanji looked at the package, it was a bit dated but they should still work.

He placed the painkillers and a bottle of water on the coffee table, it was the closest to Zoro’s room. Sanji definitely would not go into that chamber right now, not that his mate would be able to do much about it but he would not disrespect his privacy.

The cook noticed that the bottle of hard liquor was gone, Zoro must have snatched it away on his way back to his room. It was the swordsman’s own special kind of ‘painkiller’. Sanji frowned at the pills on the table. Well, as long as he didn’t take both together at the same time. But Sanji wasn’t so sure Zoro would make use of his silent offer at all. At least it was an option, for surely he would still be in a lot of pain for a while.

Sanji glanced at the bloodied and torn fabrics that used to be his friend’s jacket and t-shirt, still draped over the back of their couch. Beyond mendable, in other words: trash. He left the rags where they were, the cook didn’t want another fallout over touching Zoro’s stuff. Should he get rid of it himself.

The blood on the couch was slowly drying, thankfully the surface was leather so it was easy to clean by just wiping it off with a wet cloth. One of the pillows though was sullied forever. Sanji left it all be. He was sick of cleaning up after Zoro.

In his bedroom Sanji cleared out his nighttable and returned the shitty bottles that had started this whole mess to the mini-fridge he had taken them from. There really was no use to clinging to those anymore. Zoro’s self-destructive tendencies obvously surfaced one way or another, if he had to keep watching his friend go down that road, he’d rather at least not be part of - or worse - the reason for it.

With his evening nap in front of the TV, sleep was now not exactly on his body’s agenda. Sanji was a man who already functioned on low sleep time in general, the schedule of a busy restaurant kitchen had beaten that into his system. So, with nothing else to do in the middle of the night, Sanji turned to his laptop and made use of his time to work on some uni assignments.

Concentrating proved to be hard as his mind kept running off but he managed to suppress the turmoil inside him enough to be at least somewhat productive in his endeavors.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Wretched as he was, Zoro succumbed to a sleep mercifully devoid of dreams after emptying Sanji’s bottle and waving goodbye to the pills. 

This was not the rest Zoro needed to return to his strong self - which would take more than just a couple of days, too, meaning Zoro would have to lose some classes - but it was sufficient.

When he woke up, Zoro felt as though he’d been hit by a car and several times at that. His mind was clear now, though, and if his mind had the power, then his body was just a minor concern. It would do as it was told.

He commanded it to get out of bed - it got out of bed. He ordered it to put some trousers on - it pulled on the still-wearable tracksuit bottoms from the other day. 

Zoro opened the closet to grab a clean shirt - for the tracksuit bottoms were always available somewhere around his room, the location switching between bed and chair according to their owner’s activities - and found his own reflection looking back at him.

 _Damn, did he look like crap._ In the broad daylight that already lit his room through the open window, he could take a good look at his state and even Zoro was forced to concluded he had really outdone himself this time.

  _Whatever._ It would all fade away.

His skin was clean, at least in theory, but his gauze not being immaculate anymore proved otherwise. It was not like being covered in sticky red was something Zoro found to be that bad; but he truly hated being wrapped in bandages like they were some kind of clinical fashion garment. 

Scraping the gauze at his hurt shoulder with his finger, the swordsman was ready to rip it off his flesh. For some reason, he did not and stuck his arms inside the sleeves of an open shirt he could easily button up, thus avoiding the stupidity and the pain in shoving a t-shirt down his head.

Zoro couldn’t tell whom he was being careful for, if for himself of the cook. Whose sake was he protecting? On one hand, getting rid of his bandages (particularly with so harsh a gesture as the one he’d almost motioned) would do him no service. 

On the other, the light fabric was a reminder of Sanji’s friendly act, with all that entailed. The proximity, the unspoken words… All those feelings from last night which had felt confusing but not necessarily bad. In fact, not bad at all - pleasurable. _Sanji had never looked so beautiful either._

Noises of cupboard doors and soft-close drawers being opening and closing told him Sanji was up and already busying himself with kitchen duty. 

**This was it.**

Zoro pocketed the two things he had for his conflicting-thoughts-inducing friend and walked to the kitchen. His legs were still sore but he was limping no more.

The air smelled of oil but knowing Sanji the chances for a deep-fried heart-attack in breakfast guise were low. He was probably frying some spring rolls or something. The cook would never serve anything fried without it being served with something green and healthy, perish the thought!

Sensing the presence of another in his sacred space, Sanji looked at Zoro over the shoulder and saw his wordless greeting being acknowledged and ignored.

It so happened that, before putting that final period to their current situation, there was something else Zoro had to do. 

Realizing he had been domestically useless for some four days or so, Zoro made it his job to clean the sofa. It was his blood staining it, after all, and it wasn’t like Sanji was his personal maid. Truth be told that, meals excluded, Zoro was just as involved in house chores as Sanji was.

He cleaned the sofa with a rag wet with only the minimum of water needed; threw what was left of his clothes into the trash and retouched the coffee table. Their living room was once again in a decent state, though poorer after their breaking of Sanji’s fancy deco shits.

Zoro didn’t sit at the still empty table - he sat his ass on it and opened his legs a bit for comfort. Fishing the two items out of his pockets, he kept them in his closed hands for a moment.

“You shouldn’t have touched my booze” The man’s tone of voice conveyed an entire rainbow of tones. It was blunt and sincere as always. It was admonishing as much as it was apologetic. There was also a hint of something else… regret, maybe? 

Playful insults and hits only made possible because both of them allowed so was one thing, but things really had escalated this time. 

“Why did you do it? Uh?” Zoro wanted to know. Once again, he saw no harm in his vice, or at least no way it could harm Sanji. “You just can’t help yourself from meddling, can you?”

Sanji must have known there was more coming, for he remained silent, his lashes batting as if to say ‘are you done?’

Zoro opened his left hand, revealing a neat roll of notes. It wasn’t thick but it did look impressive. This he threw to the cook. “There’s your fucking money. For the shit we broke the other day”

The roll would’ve been thicker had Zoro’s previous night been luckier. Still, some money was better than no money and it might be enough of a decent gesture to let the cook have it, as he was the one who had a bigger word on furniture. Zoro just didn’t care about the aesthetics as long as a table was still a table.

“I wanted to give you more,” he said. The sentence sounded incomplete and lingered for a bit. There was no need for him to explain everything to Sanji, especially when knowledge might put him in danger.

Without further delay, Zoro opened his right hand and threw the second item at the cook, who promptly caught it in his hand like he’d done with the money. 

 _ **A pack of smokes.**_  

Brand-new, the carton wrapped in plastic that shone with the light of day as Sanji flipped it upside-down and left-right-left. It was as good as if it had just fallen down a vending machine. 

 **A couple of days ago, Zoro had spent his last coins on groceries and that little box of death.** The groceries he’d left on the counter but the smokes he’d taken to his room, unsure of the best time to give him to his friend or even if he should give it in the first place. 

Coincidentally, this was _Seven Stars_ \- Sanji’s favourite brand. No doubt he would dismiss this as a little detail, 'the Marimo was just lucky in hitting the right button’, but Zoro knew this brand to be the cook’s favourite. 

He had seen his face glow with the delight of having a _Seven Stars_ cigarette between his lips. To Zoro, it was comparable to his own delight in chugging down good lager as opposed to cheap - and in Sanji’s vocabulary - 'piss-water’.

 _That’s that,_ Zoro thought. He wouldn’t apologize any longer, not when he’d repaid Sanji in blood and metal. That packet of cigarettes was his redeeming gesture. 

Plus, he didn’t have the need or want of actually saying the words 'I’m sorry'.

The cook could take his nicotine-flavoured apology or dismiss it, just like he could shove some _Seven Stars_ in his mouth or in his ass. There were no fucks to give.

Zoro was now twice and completely clean of his sin and wouldn’t have things return to normal before hearing the cook. 

What did he have to say in self defense now?

  
  
  


At one point Sanji got so engrossed in his work that he went from barely to extremely productive once his mind was completely focussed on his task. It wasn’t until he had finished a big chunk of his assignments and was looking up from the screen to stretch his sore muscles that he noticed he had effectively pulled an all-nighter. The sun was already out and on its way to climb up the sky for its daily route.

Sanji checked the time on his laptop and briefly wondered if he should just go to sleep now. He was feeling more exhausted than tired though and breakfast time was coming up. With a treacherous yawn he stood up, switched off and closed his laptop after making sure that he had saved his hard work, and went to his wardrobe to pull a comfy hoodie jacket out of it. He put it right over his pajama shirt, too lazy to change out of his nightwear for regular clothes when he was planning to get ‘back’ to bed after breakfast anyways.

After a quick trip to the bathroom and his morning routine with an added splashing of ice-cold water into his face, Sanji entered the kitchen and – donning his pink apron – immediately started on breakfast.

In the middle of cooking, Zoro came out of his room and passed by the kitchen. They just exchanged acknowledging glances but remained otherwise silent and distant. While Sanji was putting the finishing touches on his meal, Zoro was cleaning up the living room quite thoroughly.

He was just done arranging the food on the plates, when Zoro sat his ass on the coffee table and looked like he was all business now. Sanji wiped his hands on his apron and gave his friend his full attention like it was silently commanded.

Sure enough, with his no-nonsense attitude Zoro didn’t beat around the bush and went straight to the point, demanding to know why the cook had hidden his booze, why he had crossed that line and started the whole mess of the past couple of days.

His tone carried more than just a simple accusation, Sanji sensed that there was still more his friend had to say so he waited with forced patience even though his first impulse was to fire back immediately.

Then Zoro was throwing something towards him and Sanji’s reflexes kicked in, snatching the thing out of the air. It was a stack of money, bills curled into a neat roll. Zoro declared this was payback for the broken deco and added hesitantly that he initially wanted to get more money.

Sanji eyes instantly went to his friend’s beat-up face, you could still see the rugged handsomeness shining through underneath the wounds. He didn’t elaborate further but the blond wasn’t dumb and could put 2 and 2 together. Zoro had tried to get some fast money the previous day, he didn’t know the exact methods, but this was dirty money for sure, ‘blood money’ his brain unhelpfully provided.

Well, all money was ultimately dirty in some way, but still, this method of earning it was obviously way too dangerous. A sick feeling settled in Sanji’s stomach. His friend had put himself in trouble to repay the damage they had both caused in their stupid fight and Sanji had been so arrogant as to demand payback for his cigarettes, he suddenly understood Zoro’s surge of rage from the previous day. The bills crinkled inside his fist tightening around them.

Before he could say something, another item came flying and Sanji once more grabbed it out of the air with his free hand. It was a fresh pack of cigarettes and not just any but Seven Stars, a rarer brand for an aquired taste, a brand that not every shop even carried and especially not one that a non-smoker would likely randomly grab, if he had no clue what brand to get. It was Sanji’s favourite brand and he was sure that Zoro had gotten it specifically for him, the perceptive bastard.

Once again a storm of emotions was raging inside of him, impossible to untangle. He put the money on the counter and tapped his fingers on the wood, to stall his answer in order to regain some cool. Zoro was obviously done for his part, expectantly waiting for the cook’s explanation on why this whole shit had started in the first place so that they could finally put the damn situation to rest, hopefully.

He stared at the pack of cigarettes in his hand and a comfortable feeling of warmth engulfed the big, anxious knot in his stomach. Behind his apron Sanji let the package slip into one of the pockets of his hoodie jacket. Then he took a deep breath.

“I was just trying to limit the damage to your liver you are so intent on destroying,” he started with a defeated sigh, the best he could do in place of a ‘I was worried about your drinking’, and continued “but I obviously underestimated your self-destructive tendencies…”

'And your sense for revenge’, he thought bitterly.

“And then shit got fucked up.” It was his way of admitting that this definitely wasn’t how he had wanted things to turn out, even if his meddling in Zoro’s drinking was more of a spontaneous act.

“Just look at you, you should definitely take better care of yourself,” he huffed in annoyance and mumbled an added “shitty algae-brained Marimo,” in case he was coming across as too soft.

Sanji didn’t know what more to say then, he shifted his weight on his feet, carding his hand through his hair before he dared to ask:

“Are we even now?”

He just wanted this stupid mess to be over, though Zoro’s injuries would be quite the reminder for a while still. Sanji was chewing on his lower lip in imitation of the unshakeable feeling of guilt gnawing at him.

“The food is getting cold.”

  
  
  


After making his statements and his questions, Zoro waited for Sanji to come clean. He was done talking for now, knowing enlightenment could only come after his friend manifested himself with whatever apologies or accusations he had to do. 

Sanji was awfully smart - he’d understand that this was the apology Zoro was capable of coming up with as well as understanding how and where the money had come from. It was expected that he would be the gentleman he was and not molest Zoro with questions about his trade, just as he never had. 

When the blond cook spoke, his voice was sincere but his words weren’t. It didn’t take Zoro long to understand that _that_ was also the cook’s version of an apology. Under his pretend-insults what he really was saying was _I’m sorry for what I did, I was worried about you._

“You look no better” Zoro said despite knowing it was not true. Sanji looked pristine and made of heaven while he looked like he’d crawled out of hell. 

But this wasn’t entirely untrue, either, for the swordsman quickly recalled the ash in Sanji’s collar and his higher levels of irritability after being forced to ration his cigarettes. 

In the end, Zoro understood, they were both hopelessly addicted to their **bad habits** and guilty of having **good intentions** concerning each other’s health.

Upon being asked if they were even, Zoro got down from the table and grabbed a fork and a knife from the top drawer. They could eat in peace again, without thoughts nor gestures of violence, and that meant 'yes’ to Sanji’s question.

Zoro spoke nothing as he fished breakfast off the pan, deliberately getting a bit of every component so as to please the cook and his stomach at the same time. There was no denying that tasting Sanji’s cooking was a pleasurable experience. 

“You…” Plate and silver in his hands, Zoro relaxed his back against the counter and looked away, not wishing for his words to be met by Sanji’s eyes. “You should take better care of yourself too”

Though he didn’t say it, there were times Zoro felt genuine worry for his friend’s health. He knew Sanji needed his dose for a handful of reasons and respected that - nicotine was the cook’s fuel as much as alcohol was the swordsman’s. It just appeared to be too much sometimes, when the ash tray or the garbage bin grew full of cinder and cigarette butts as though an entire party of friends had smoked that day.

After years and years of chainsmoking, a major health condition might not be that far away from happening. If it did, and when it did, Sanji would not be the only one affected… and Zoro didn’t know if he could endure having Sanji as a cancer patient. 

Not that he doubted Sanji’s will or his own but the prospect was… He’d rather not think about it.

Zoro’s eyes faltered and turned to Sanji. He swallowed the saliva in his mouth, hoping the truth in them would not betray his darkest thoughts. He didn’t want Sanji to reach them, no matter how smart he was.

“What’re you waiting for?” he quickly spoke before his friend decided to engage in deeper conversation. “Let’s eat”

Rather than taking his food to the table, Zoro sat on the sofa, stretched his legs over the coffee table, clicked the remote and started eating right off his plate. Sanji couldn’t get mad at him for giving his sore legs a rest, could he?  
  
  


  
  


Zoro’s gesture of piling a mountain of food on his plate was more than appreciated and put a small smile on Sanji’s face. The cook was surprised though, wenn his friend returned his advice to take better care of himself to the blond and when he looked at the Marimo with raised eyebrows, it took him a while to meet his gaze.

His breath caught in his throat ‘cause for the fraction of a moment Sanji thought he’d seen something akin to fear in those deep, dark eyes, but before he could wrap his brain around it, Zoro had called for breakfast to start.

The Marimo was taking his plate over to the sofa where he got all comfortable with his feet on the coffee table. Sanji ignored that slight against basic manners in favour of their newfound peace and filled up his own plate.

For a second he was going to sit down at the dining table for a proper eating place, but then he passed right by it and wordlessly took a seat besides Zoro on the couch. He ate slowly, like usual, and didn’t really pay attention to whatever was running on TV.

Somehow Sanji was hyper-aware of Zoro’s presence beside him. It was a pleasant feeling, just sitting like this, eating together, not fighting. He quite enjoyed it. It was relaxing.

When he was finished with his breakfast, he took Zoro’s empty plate and cutlery back to the kitchen with him. The food settling in his stomach and the warm water from the dishwashing finally made Sanji feel a bit drowsy. His all-nighter was catching up to him already, the cook had thought he’d last until noon before hitting this slump but fatigue was claiming him fast.

Sanji skipped out on drying the dishes, leaving them to dry by air instead. When he was about to scuffle back to his room to collapse on his bed for a dose of sleep, his feet instead took him back to the couch – honestly the next best, comfy place and far closer than his bedroom.

He dropped down on it, pulling his feet up and hugging his knees to his chest. There was no pillow he could reach without having to half-crawl over Zoro but this was a comfortable pose for him so he didn’t mind.

With half-closed eyes he stared blindly at the TV screen, his mind was already too tired to register what was going on. He couldn’t keep those eye opened for long.

His head dropped down and suddenly shot back up when he’d knocked his forehead against his own knees. The blond then leaned back instead, his head lying comfortably on the backrest of the sofa, this was way better for his neck.

He thought he’d heard Zoro say something to him, probably telling him to go to bed, or maybe it was just the sound from the TV humming in his ears. It was all the same to him at this point.

As sleep washed over him, Sanji completely relaxed and let the stress from the past few days be replaced by peaceful slumber instead. His arms around his legs grew lax and fell to his side, without the support his legs followed suit, body all slack, and they began to lean towards the side. This shift in his body made Sanji’s head roll and slide down the backrest until it landed on Zoro’s shoulder.

Unconsciously, he snuggled a bit closer, leaning his body even more towards his friend in his sleep in a slightly uncomfortable looking pose. His breathing was deep and relaxed with a clear rhythm, telling of a deep sleep.  
  
  


  
  


Sanji didn’t say a word about him having his legs on the furniture, and indeed spoke nothing while they ate. Only the sounds of the activity and of the TV were to be heard. 

Zoro had finally decided on what to watch when Sanji returned from putting the plates away - a movie which had already started some twenty minutes ago; but seeing as it was an action movie, it made no difference not watching it from the very start. 

The plots of such movies always had something to do with chasing after drug dealers or stopping big attacks from happening and always had an underground station or a skyscraper as the stage where the action took place. 

It didn’t take much time or brains to understand what this one was all about: the funny guy of the cops would either get shot or be blown to smithereens and the only woman of the story would end up with the lead male. 

Predictable as the narrative was, Zoro still paid attention to it, for the ass-kicking was always enjoyable, and thus did not notice how drunk on his sleepiness Sanji was.

Indeed, he pretty much ignored Sanji (though not the feeling of his presence) until the cook’s head met with his friend’s shoulder. 

With an inquisitive “hmm” Zoro moved his head as little as he needed to look at Sanji, eyes and mouth fully closed. As if on cue, Sanji got even closer to Zoro, unconsciously getting nearer to the warmth he felt. 

A sense of peace came over Sanji’s face and Zoro asked himself if his friend was having a good dream. He seemed immensely tired.

Going a bit peachy-hued on the cheeks, Zoro coughed his immediate responding feeling away and turned his attention to the movie again. The proximity this sleepy Sanji had created was making him uncomfortable.

Gradually it subsided, being replaced with a whole new sensation. 

It was _bliss_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> We tried to put the different RP posts into sensible chapters  
> They are subject to some more thorough re-editing for a better reading experience


End file.
